


The Knight and the Tattooist

by CherieoftheDragons (SignCherie)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crack, Dalish Culture, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Modern Day Knights, Modern Thedas, The Knight Shop AU, UST, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, culture clash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:45:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SignCherie/pseuds/CherieoftheDragons
Summary: A modern-ish AU, basically Thedas/present-day England, in which there exists a shop where one can hire knights. A Knight Shop. Typically, knights are hired to do odd jobs, attend social events, act as bodyguards, etc. And many of our favorite Dragon Age characters are knights-for-hire.Blackwall is a knight with a shameful past, and Mirevas Lavellan is a leather-clad Dalish tattoo artist who comes seeking his services.





	1. In Which Blackwall Doesn't Think Things Through

**Author's Note:**

> This is a shared AU, and I must thank Aphreal, TrulyCertain, withthebreezesblown, and CeleritasSagittae for their contributions. They've all written in this world as well -- see the [masterpost here](http://trulycertain.tumblr.com/post/157068238148/the-knight-shop-au-masterpost) for more! Additional thanks to sarcasmfish and Tru's mum for contributing ideas and encouragement!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: Short Skirt, Long Jacket by Cake -- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u7aDstrDMf0

It was a slow day at the Knight Shop. Blackwall had read through all his car and motorcycle magazines twice, and his shift was only half over. He’d even offered to help Josephine file paperwork -- an offer which she’d declined, very politely, though Blackwall hadn’t missed her hastily concealed grimace. Oh, well. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, resigning himself to a day of abject boredom.

The door chimed. Blackwall looked over just in time to see a tattooed goddess step into the shop.

He sat straight up.

She was utterly beautiful. A tiny thing, probably not much more than five feet tall, and slim enough that Blackwall thought his large hands might almost fit around her waist. Ebony hair was pulled back into a tight bun, exposing long, pointed ears. Elegant tattooed lines sloped over the curves of her face and down her throat, stark against her tawny skin. A Dalish elf, he realized. She wore a black leather jacket over a band t-shirt and tight, black jeans. Her piercing brown eyes surveyed the room.

They fell on Blackwall.

The goddess was looking at him. At  _ him _ . Immediately, his heart started pounding. He opened his mouth to speak -- and every word he knew flew entirely out of his head.

Cassandra’s voice cut through the silence. “May I help you?”

Cassandra. Yes. She was manning the desk. Blackwall had forgotten she was in the room.

The vision before him turned away, and as her eyes left his, Blackwall felt a sharp pang go through him.

“Yes,” the goddess said. “I’m looking for Gal Trevelyan? I’m getting ready to move to a new flat, and I’ve hit a...snafu. He said if I needed anything, I could find him here.”

“I’m sorry.” Cassandra shook her head once. “Ser Gal is out on another job. Perhaps another knight can assist you.”

“Yes!” Blackwall found his voice and jumped up like a fool. Quickly, he gathered his wits. “I mean -- I’d be honored to serve you in any way I can, my lady.” He bowed from the waist as grandly as he could.

The woman blinked. “You guys take the chivalry part of knighthood very seriously, don’t you?”

Er… had he overdone it with the gallantry?

“Never mind,” the beauty said quickly. “Yes, if you can help me, that would be great.”

Cassandra harrumphed and handed a clipboard with a blank contract to the beautiful elf. “I’ll let Ser Blackwall take over, then.”

With that, Cassandra surrendered the desk to Blackwall, and he moved forward to take her place. His heart hadn’t stopped racing since the goddess had stepped through the door. She looked down at the contract, biting her bottom lip as she read. Her lips. They were full and soft-looking. He wondered what it would be like...

Andraste’s pyre, what was he thinking? This was a client. A young, beautiful client who would certainly never look twice at the likes of him. 

The Dalish beauty raised her head. “Do you have a pen?”

“Oh! Yes.” He should have given her one right away. Blackwall tried not to fumble as he grabbed one and held it out to her. Maker, what if his hand touched hers as she took it? What if -- what if he allowed his hand to brush against hers purposefully? Would that be inappropriate?

Her fingers touched the pen, and he let go. It fell onto the desk and rolled off, landing at the lady’s feet.

Blackwall wanted to sink into the floor. The goddess laughed nervously and bent to retrieve it.

He didn’t want to stare at her as she filled out the contract, so he tried to look busy by straightening the desk. Which...was already pretty well straightened. Void take it, did Cassandra have to be so meticulous?

Finally the goddess looked up with a smile and handed Blackwall the clipboard. “Ser Blackwall, was it?”

“So they call me.”

The corners of her mouth quirked upwards. “I’m Mirevas. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand.

Blackwall took it gingerly, wrapping her fingers in his own. They were warm and soft against his calloused skin.

“A pleasure, indeed, my lady,” he murmured.

Before he could think better of it, he raised her hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.

Maker’s breath, what was he doing?

Dimly, Blackwall felt someone tug the clipboard from his left hand. “I’ll take this, shall I?”

That was Josephine. When had she come in?

He released the lady’s hand. His cheeks were burning, and he hoped it didn’t show beneath his beard. The goddess--Mirevas--pulled her hand back slowly, and Blackwall noticed that her cheeks were tinged pink as well.

Was that a good sign?

Mirevas inclined her head toward the door. “Shall we go, then?”

Blackwall nodded. “I am entirely at your service.”

He followed her across the shop and had one foot out the door when Josephine’s voice stopped him. “Er--Blackwall?”

Blackwall glanced back, trying not to show his annoyance at the delay.

Josephine held the clipboard in one hand. She squinted one eye at him in confusion. “Are you sure you want to take this job?”

He looked out the door to where Mirevas was opening a car door, then back at Josephine. “Oh, yes.”

Josephine looked no less puzzled, but she shrugged. “Very well, then.”

Blackwall let the door close behind him. Mirevas smiled up at him, sunlight gleaming on her black hair.

Yes, he wanted to take this job. This just may be the best job he’d ever taken.

* * *

 

Mirevas drove them to the location, and they chatted on the way. She was a tattooist, it turned out. That was how she knew Gal; she’d done many of his tattoos. Blackwall hadn’t had a tattoo done in over ten years, but he found himself asking her about getting a griffon on his calf. She grinned at the idea and promised to show him her book if he came into her shop.

Maker, she was beautiful. Far too beautiful for an old knight like him. Blackwall found it hard to look away from her.

Mirevas pulled over in front of a flat with a bright red door. “Right. This is it. My new place.”

Blackwall was a bit surprised. She’d said she was still preparing for the move. He’d assumed that meant going to her current home and packing, sorting belongings, that kind of thing. Well, maybe her new flat needed cleaning. That must be it.

As they walked toward the door, Mirevas gave him a smile so brilliant it was nearly blinding. He felt a little bit dizzy.

“I appreciate this so much,” she said. “The place is crawling with spiders, and I’m terrified of them.”

Blackwall staggered back a step. “ _ What? _ ”

Mirevas tilted her head, brow furrowed. “Is that a problem?”

_ Spiders _ . Fucking spiders. 

Blackwall  _ hated  _ spiders.

“No problem!” Shit, his voice was squeaking. He cleared his throat. “No, no problem.” There, that sounded more casual. He hoped.

Mirevas squinted slightly, but nodded. “I don’t think there are enough of them to warrant an exterminator, but--I don’t really want to go in there. I hate the things.” Her smile now was sheepish. “There’s a can of spider repellent under the kitchen sink. If you could spray the place and then maybe take down their webs…? Once we've chased them out, we can come back and caulk the place up. Make sure they can't get back in.”

Blackwall bobbed his head like a bloody idiot. “Spray and take down the webs, no problem. They’re just spiders. Nothing to worry about.”

Mirevas frowned and opened her mouth. Before she could say something about what a sodding coward he was, Blackwall took a deep breath, swung open the door, and darted inside.

As soon as the door closed behind him, his skin started to itch. Spiders. They could be anywhere. There could be one crawling on him right now.  _ No _ . Blackwall shook his head. He was a grown man. A knight, even. He’d fought in tournaments against warriors with swords and armour. He would not be undone by a creepy…

...crawly…

Eugh.  Why did the spray can have to be all the way in the kitchen? Blackwall scurried through the flat, made a beeline for the cupboard, and grabbed the can of spider repellent. Best to get this over with. He started with the baseboards, spraying as fast as he could, and then--

Maker’s balls. A web. Right there in the bloody corner.

Fucking fuck fuck. How was he going to get rid of the damn thing? Blackwall looked around wildly and spotted a broom leaning against the wall. He snatched it up and swung at the web. The broom’s bristles tore into it.

And a spider crawled up the handle of the broom.

Blackwall screamed. The broom fell from his grasp, and his feet moved of their own accord. The next thing he knew, he was outside, slamming the door behind him. 

Mirevas stared at him, mouth agog.

“Are there any on me?” Blackwall cried. 

Immediately, Mirevas sprung into action, circling him as she searched his body. Maker, he wished he could stop trembling. 

“Nothing,” she declared. “You're clean.”

Blackwall heaved a shuddering sigh. Andraste’s ass, what a bloody pansy he was. 

Mirevas gazed up at him with wide eyes. “That--that was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Wait, what?

Her expression was almost awestruck. “You took on a flat full of spiders. For me.”

Blackwall certainly didn’t feel brave. “They’re just spiders.”

Mirevas shuddered. “Nasty, crawly things with too many legs. Eugh. Any sane person would want to run as far away from them as they could.”

Her words were calming. “They are horrible, aren’t they?”

“Horrendous. I can’t believe you went in there. You are definitely my hero.”

Her hero. Blackwall’s chest swelled with pride. “I didn’t finish the job.”

Mirevas waved a hand. “I’ll get Gal to do it tomorrow. For now, er--”

She stopped and looked at her shoes.

Blackwall panicked, wondering what he’d done wrong. “What is it?”

“I--can I take you to lunch? Is that allowed?”

She looked up at him from under her lashes.

Blackwall’s pulse sped up for reasons entirely unrelated to spiders. “It is most definitely allowed, and I would be honored, my lady.”

A grin crept over her face, and the whole world lit up. “I know an excellent pub just a few blocks away.”

Blackwall followed her obediently down the street, thinking that despite the spiders, he’d been right.

This was the best job he’d ever taken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TrulyCertain drew [art of Mirevas](https://trulycertain.tumblr.com/post/159242450963/she-was-utterly-beautiful-a-tiny-thing-probably) to go with this chapter.


	2. In Which Blackwall Somehow Manages Not to Kill His Coworkers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song for this chapter: [You Should Consider Having Sex With a Bearded Man](https://youtu.be/KenydTXfzvo), by the Beards, from the album Having a Beard Is the New Not Having a Beard. It’s not exactly what I’d call an explicit song, but it’s not innocent either. I'd call it M-rated, so listen at your own risk. 
> 
> [Gal Trevelyan](http://cherieofthedragons.tumblr.com/post/158980113201/gift-art-for-trulycertain-of-her-inquisitor-gal) and Erren belong to TrulyCertain.

“She’s absolutely brilliant, you know.” 

Blackwall sighed and set down his magazine, bracing himself for more lovesick rambling about the accomplished young lady Alistair refused to admit he had fallen for. Blackwall should have known he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on transmission schematics when Alistair was on duty with him. 

“I’ve never seen anyone who fights like her.” Alistair’s voice was dreamy as he scribbled in the margins of the ledger. Josephine was not going to be happy when she saw he’d doodled in her official paperwork. Again. “She spent all of yesterday teaching me all of the moves from the guy who beat her last time, so that if I learn to fence like him, she can practice against me-as-him and beat him next season. She’ll probably win the whole thing then. I told you she placed third this year, right?” 

“Once or twice,” Blackwall said drily. In point of fact, Alistair  couldn’t seem to shut up about it. Every time he was in a room with Blackwall, he found something new about his lady to rave about. And the tournament had been nearly a month ago. 

At first, Blackwall was genuinely impressed. In his time in competitive fencing, he’d seen a handful of women qualify to compete in men’s tournaments, but he’d never heard of one placing so highly. Alistair’s lady was clearly a skilled fencer, and the boy had every right to be proud of her. 

But being proud was one thing. Sharing the depth of his pride with every person he could corner into listening was another. Blackwall had retired from fencing nearly a decade ago, and for good reasons. He simply couldn’t maintain the obsessive level of interest in fencing he’d had when he was younger. And no one could maintain Alistair’s level of obsessive interest in this particular fencer. 

Alistair prattled on, oblivious to the ever-increasing exasperation of his one-man audience. “I was able to copy the bloke’s remise pretty easily, once she showed me all the steps he’d used. Don’t ask how she remembered them all, by the way, because I have no idea how she can perfectly copy a set of attacks made against her one time weeks ago. I mentioned she’s amazing, didn’t I?” 

“Once or twice,” Blackwall said again. As far as he could tell, it was Alistair’s favorite adjective when it came to his lady. 

“The passata sotto took longer to get right.” Alistair winced, and Blackwall smirked into his beard at that typical novice reaction to a move that relied on a controlled crouch. “A lot longer. My legs are going to be sore for a week, at least. But she’s such a patient teacher, and I eventually got it, and then…” 

The recitation was cut off by the shrill ring of the shop phone. 

“Thank the Maker…” Blackwall moved to answer it, eager to hear any other conversation at this point, even if it was someone calling to complain. Or the persistent woman who kept insisting they stage some sort of joust for her son’s birthday party and refusing to accept it was not possible. Where would they even get and train the horses for that, much less transport them across town? 

But Alistair was closer, and he grabbed the phone before Blackwall could get to it. “Knight Shop, how can we help?”

He paused, listening, then glanced at Blackwall. “Sure, let me just take a look at the rota.” Quickly, he flipped open the scheduling book. “Ah, sorry--Mirevas, was it? Blackwall is booked on Friday evening. Would you like someone else--”

Blackwall’s heart jumped into his throat. He sprang up from his seat, waving his hands wildly.

Alistair frowned. “Er--hang on a minute.” He pressed the mute button. “What?”

“I want this job,” Blackwall hissed.

The other knight raised an eyebrow. “But you’re already booked. Mrs. Renfrow.”

Blackwall grimaced. Mrs. Renfrow was a seventy-year-old woman who hired one of the knights to move heavy furniture around her house every week -- and then, unfailingly, decided she wanted it back the way it was and snapped at the knight for changing it. She had a nasty temper and a terrible superiority complex, and every single one of them hated working for her.

“Cover for me,” Blackwall begged.

Alistair let out a bark of laughter. “No way. I did it last week. It’s your turn.”

“Please. I’ll take your next turn.”

“Uh-uh. Friday’s my day off, and I have plans.”

Blackwall was getting desperate. “You can have the fee for both jobs.”

Alistair’s eyebrows went up.

Blackwall gritted his teeth. “Please.”

With an immense sigh, Alistair crossed his arms. “You’ll take my next  _ two  _ turns.”

Blackwall bobbed his head in agreement.

“And cover for me on Monday.”

“Yes, yes.”

“And--”

Blackwall growled in frustration. “ _ Alistair _ .”

Alistair put up his hands in surrender, clearly aware that he’d pushed his luck to the limits. “All right, all right. I’ll do it. My plans are earlier in the day, anyway. Keep the fee for the second job.”

His plans were --

Blackwall glared at Alistair. He didn’t have plans at that time at all. He’d tricked Blackwall into--

Alistair held out the phone quickly. “Er, you’ll take this, then?”

Furious, Blackwall snatched it from his hand, then took a deep, calming breath. He didn’t want to sound angry when he spoke to Mirevas. When his breathing was even, he jabbed a finger at the mute button. “Hello. Mirevas?”

“Blackwall!” The golden tones of Mirevas’s voice were music to his ears. “Hello!”

“Hello.” He’d said that already. “Er--I understand you wish to request my services on Friday evening, my lady?”

“I do, yes. My artwork is being featured in a gallery show, and the opening is on Friday. I thought maybe -- if you were available -- well, I don’t think anyone else there will have a knight on their arm.”

Ah. So it was the novelty of bringing a knight that she wanted, not Blackwall himself. He pushed down his disappointment. It was a job, nothing more. Beautiful young women did not notice middle-aged men like him.

But--she’d asked for him specifically. She could have asked for Gal; she knew him better, after all. That meant--that had to mean--she wanted to see  _ him _ . Blackwall.

“I would be honored to be on your arm, my lady.”

“Always a gentleman.” He thought he could hear the smile in her voice, and he closed his eyes and imagined it. “The opening begins at six and goes until ten. It’s at The June Gallery. Should we--do you want to meet there? Maybe fifteen minutes early, before the guests start to arrive?”

“Your wish is my command.”

Mirevas chuckled. “Right. Good. I’ll, ah, print the contract from your website, shall I? And...I’m looking forward to it.”

“As am I, my lady.”

“Goodbye, then.”

“Farewell.”

The line disconnected. Blackwall opened his eyes and gently set the phone back in its cradle.

“Does she fence?”

Blackwall turned to face Alistair. “What?”

Alistair tilted his head. “The lady. Does she fence?”

“No.” Blackwall didn’t even try to hold back his exasperation.

“And she’s worth two weeks of Mrs. Renfrow? Even though she doesn’t fence?” Alistair’s teasing smirk made Blackwall’s jaw clench, and with his usual instinct for recognizing a line right after he’d crossed it, Alistair quickly changed the subject. “So about the passata sotto…” 

Blackwall put his head in his hands.

* * *

 

When he saw Mirevas the next day, he was completely caught off-guard. It was Wednesday; he had two days until the art gallery. Two days to spend every waking hour daydreaming about her, or so it seemed. Somehow, he couldn’t manage to think of anything else. Two days. Just a little over 48 hours, now. And then he’d have four whole hours in her presence.

He sat on a stool behind the shop counter and tried to follow the debate about music, but with little luck. Any other time, he would have had plenty to say about the merits of heavy metal as compared to the traditional jazz Gal’s Tevinter client was raving about. But Erren seemed to have the matter well in hand, and Blackwall knew that if Gal or Cassandra decided to join in, he’d likely approve of what they said.  So Blackwall’s mind kept floating away, going back to--

Mirevas.

_ Mirevas _ .

Mirevas was stepping through the door. 

For a moment, Blackwall thought he was still imagining her. But no, she was there. In the flesh. Physically standing before him. Her eyes scanned the shop, then focused on him.

Maker’s breath, this was real. He all but lurched off his stool, coming round the counter to greet her.

“Hello, Blackwall.” Mirevas smiled. Maker, he loved the way his name sounded on her lips. The two syllables had never been so beautiful.

“My lady.”

He couldn’t think of what to say next. Her brown eyes blinked as she tilted her head up to look at him, and Blackwall became aware of exactly how huge he was. Andraste’s arse, he had to be a foot taller than her. Suddenly his body seemed to take up entirely too much space.

As Mirevas continued to look up at him, Blackwall realized that he was staring at her silently like an idiot. Quickly, he tried to pull his thoughts together. “I wasn’t expecting to see you today, my lady.”

“Oh.” Mirevas looked down at her hand, and he realized she held a folded-up paper. “I thought I should come in and drop off the contract.”

Somewhere in the background, Blackwall dimly registered that music had started coming out of the break room.

“The contract, yes, of course.” Maker’s balls, he was a bloody git. “Thank you.”

Mirevas bit her lip. “I suppose I should have just emailed it to the shop.”

Lyrics began floating out to him.  **_You catch his eye from across the room, you catch his eye…_ **

“Not at all,” Blackwall said. “I’m--I’m very glad to see you, my lady.”

**_You think, oh my, he’s got quite the beard, oh my…_ **

Blackwall’s head jerked up.

**_And now you want to but you can’t look away. His beard is black and bushy with a hint of grey…_ **

Horrified, he turned back to see Erren standing next to the break room door looking entirely too casual.

**_And now you find yourself walking his way..._ **

“Excuse me a moment--”

Without waiting for an answer, Blackwall lurched in the direction of the music, just in time to hear the song continue with the words,  **_Hey hey, you should consider having sex with a bearded man!_ **

Fucking hell, he was going to murder Erren.

**_You’ve got these feelings that you can’t understand, sex with a bearded man!_ **

He banged through the door and lunged for the music player.

**_You think you can’t, but you can! Don’t try to fight, just get freaky with a beard tonight!_ **

Desperately, Blackwall jabbed at the stop button, and the music thankfully cut off.

He slumped over in relief, but it was short-lived. Andraste’s fucking tits, how much of that had Mirevas heard?

He growled. Erren was going to regret the day she was born.

With barely controlled rage, Blackwall emerged from the break room, his eyes settling on Erren where she still stood, leaning against the wall. He took a step towards her.

Erren glanced at a non-existent watch on her wrist. “Look at that, it’s time for my break!” she trilled. With that, she darted for the front door and disappeared in a matter of seconds.

Blackwall took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Later. He’d deal with her later. Right now he had to face Mirevas again.

Dear Maker, what would she think?

“...and I was thinking about what I could do on my other calf. Something to set off the work you’ve already done. I’m not sure what’d work best. Do you have any ideas?”

That was Gal. Blackwall looked over to see him standing next to Mirevas, who was nodding with interest.

“I could put together some sketches using the themes we’ve been discussing. You’re wanting to complete what you have into more of a coherent whole?”

“Exactly. I’d love to see what you’d come up with.”

Blackwall realized what was happening, and he wanted to kiss Gal. Which was not something he’d ever thought to want. But Gal had saved him. He’d distracted Mirevas with tattoo talk to keep her from noticing that horrible song. A weight lifted from Blackwall’s shoulders. All was not lost.

Gal glanced over at Blackwall. “You have business to take care of?”

“Indeed.” Blackwall pulled himself together as best he could and approached Mirevas once more. She stepped towards him, smiling that smile that always did him in.

“This is for you, then,” she said, holding out the paper.

“Thank you, my lady.” He reached to take it from her, and as she put it in his hand, her fingers touched his, sending a jolt of electricity through him. Had she done that on purpose? He hoped she’d done that on purpose.

He didn’t want to take his eyes off her, but if there was anything he’d learned from the last time he’d accepted a job with her, it was that he ought to be prepared. So he unfolded the paper and scanned it quickly, satisfying himself that there was nothing unexpected in this particular contract. A social obligation at an art show. It seemed simple enough. A Friday evening spent with the most magnificent woman he’d ever been lucky enough to lay eyes on. There was nothing he wanted more.

Mirevas tucked a strand of black hair behind a long, pointed ear. “Does everything look all right?”

“Perfect.” Blackwall set the paper down on the counter. “I shall count the seconds.”

Too much, it was too much. He shouldn’t say such things. She’d come seeking professional services, not a date. But Mirevas just ducked her head with a grin. “Such chivalry,” she said. “I look forward to it, too.”

She looked up at him once more, her piercing gaze locking him in place. For a moment, he thought he saw something in those dark eyes. Something...something…

Then she nodded and turned away, crossing to the door. With one last glance in his direction, she stepped outside, and he watched through the window as she walked quickly away.

Blackwall let out a breath and realized how wobbly his knees had become. He leaned his weight against the counter and tried to calm the fluttering of his heart.

“You’re going to her gallery opening, then?” Gal said.

Blackwall nodded.

“A gallery opening?” The Tevinter client -- Blackwall thought he’d heard him called Dorian -- squinted at him in undisguised scrutiny. “Is that...a common sort of job for you?”

Blackwall frowned at the man. “Not exactly.”

“I hadn’t thought so. No offense, but you look the sort one hires to lift heavy objects, that sort of thing.”

He bristled. “I can handle myself at an art gallery.”

“Of course you can,” Dorian said smoothly. “Tell me, what are you intending to wear?”

Blackwall opened his mouth to reply and found himself stuck. What  _ was  _ he going to wear?

The Tevinter nodded smugly. “That’s rather what I thought.”

Blackwall was caught between anger and despair. He would be fine at an art gallery. He would wear--erm, he would wear--

“Fear not.” Dorian stepped forward and patted Blackwall once on the arm. Blackwall’s answering glare caused the man to take a step back, but he continued in a patronizing tone, “I can help.”

“I don’t need help.”

The Tevinter ignored him. “You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard, but you don’t want to look like a prat, either. Do you have anything in brocade?”

Blackwall glowered at the man.

“No, of course you don’t.” Dorian sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You may need to make a shopping outing. A waistcoat, perhaps. Double-breasted. Yes, with an ascot. Very nice.”

Blackwall tried to picture himself in a double-breasted waistcoat and ascot, and immediately shook his head. “No.”

Dorian tilted his head. “Not an ascot? No, I suppose that might be a bit pretentious. Well, for  _ you _ , anyway. A jauntily-tied scarf may be a better choice.”

In frustration, Blackwall looked towards Gal, who looked back at him blankly and shrugged.

At that moment, Cassandra made a disgusted noise, and all three of them turned to look at her. They’d entirely forgotten she was in the room.

“Wear a blazer,” she said. “And dress slacks. With a button-down shirt in a nice color. That will be enough.”

The Tevinter frowned. “I suppose, if you don’t want to be creative--”

“I don’t,” Blackwall interrupted.

“It’s better that you’re not.” Cassandra folded her arms. “You’re not an artist. You don’t want to make a spectacle of yourself. It may work for some--” she glanced at Dorian “--but it’s not for the uninitiated. No. Blazer, trousers, shirt. Top button undone. That’s all.”

They all blinked at her for a moment.

She huffed. “If there’s one thing you learn as a child in the Pentaghast household, it’s how to dress for social events. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have something to discuss with Josephine.” With that, she stepped past them all, knocked on the office door, and entered, closing the door behind her.

The three men looked at each other. Then Gal turned to Dorian. “We should go,” he said. “If you want me to sort out those shelves today.”

“Yes, yes,” Dorian answered in distraction, and followed Gal to the exit. Just before he left, Dorian looked back over his shoulder. “Cornflower blue,” he told Blackwall. “For the shirt. It will bring out your eyes.”

Then the door closed behind him, and Blackwall was alone.

Cornflower blue. Surreptitiously, Blackwall examined his reflection in the glass window. Hmm. 

He’d think about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gal Trevelyan and Erren are TrulyCertain's OCs. The lady Alistair is mooning over is Aphreal's Alexia Cousland. I also owe Aphreal for writing Alistair's dialogue at the beginning of the scene.
> 
> And I drew art of [Mirevas coming in to drop off the contract.](https://68.media.tumblr.com/13139623396b8040c73b1e4a2f11a679/tumblr_ong3ih951i1r2bic8o1_1280.png)


	3. In Which Blackwall Is Not Dalish

This was it. Blackwall parked his lovingly-restored 1971 Charger in the gallery parking lot and tugged on the sleeves of his blazer. He hoped he looked all right. On Cassandra’s advice, he’d worn a dark grey blazer, light grey dress slacks, and a cornflower blue shirt with the top button undone. All right, the shirt color had come from Gal’s friend Dorian, but Blackwall never intended to let the man know he’d taken his advice. The whole thing was a little out of Blackwall’s comfort zone -- he tended towards metal t-shirts, jeans, and boots -- but for Mirevas, it was worth it.

And, of course, he’d spent an inordinate amount of time combing out his beard. He always did that, far more than he wanted anyone to find out, but today -- he’d be on Mirevas’s arm. She was the artist; everyone would notice her. He needed to look as presentable as possible.

Maker, he hoped he wouldn’t embarrass her.

He was as ready as he’d ever be. Blackwall pushed open the car door and stepped out into the cool air.

Mirevas was already there. She was facing away from him, standing on the pavement and talking to someone. She may be turned away, but he’d recognize her ebony hair, tawny skin, and petite frame anywhere. 

She took his breath away. Her hair was pulled back in her usual pristine bun, which emphasized her long, elegant, pierced ears. Her forest green blouse was backless, held to her slender body by thin laces. An image he recognized as Dalish was tattooed against the smooth bronze skin of her back, a hunting bow with a leafy branch running through it. Tight black slacks were tucked into knee-high leather boots.

She was, beyond a doubt, the most bewitching woman he’d ever seen.

As if sensing his presence, she turned, and her eyes met his. A glorious smile spread across her face. She spoke quickly to her current companion, who nodded and went into the gallery.

Blackwall’s mouth was dry. He wasn’t sure he could speak. Not trusting his voice, he stepped toward her, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Blackwall.” She ducked her head. “It’s good to see you.”

He reached for her hand, and she gave him her own. “It is an immense pleasure to accompany you, my lady.”

In a moment of courage, he bent his head to kiss her delicate fingers. Her skin was warm against his lips.

Mirevas blushed, and his heart beat faster.

“You’re very...chivalrous. Well, you are a knight. I suppose that’s part of the job description.”

“Perhaps.” Blackwall’s chest swelled at the compliment. Most people saw him as rough, unpolished. With Mirevas, though…

It would be a disgrace to treat Mirevas with anything less than the highest respect.

He released her hand, and she drew it back. Suddenly, something behind him caught her eye, and she froze. “Blackwall.”

Her face was so shocked that for a brief moment, Blackwall wondered if she’d seen a spider. “What is it?”

“That--is that your car?”

“Oh.” Blackwall glanced back over his shoulder at his beloved Charger. “It is, yes.”

Mirevas gaped at him. “And you let me drive my beat-up old Rover last time instead of offering me a ride?”

That stopped Blackwall in his tracks. He’d been so distracted by the visage of the Dalish goddess before him that he hadn’t given a thought to transportation at the time. Which was pretty shocking, actually, given his passion for cars. “I--er--”

She folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “Next time, we are taking  _ that _ .”

Next time? There would be a next time? He suddenly felt light as a feather -- a very unfamiliar feeling for a man his size.

Mirevas bit her lip and gestured to the door. “Shall we?”

Blackwall offered her his arm. “It is my honor.”

* * *

Blackwall wasn’t usually such an idiot. At forty years old, he’d known lots of women over the years. But he couldn’t remember ever being so utterly dumbstruck by a lady as he was by Mirevas.

Which was probably why he didn’t realize exactly what he was walking into until he, well, walked into it.

Blackwall was carefully not staring at Mirevas, which was not easy, given how stunning she looked. He was a knight; he had to be courteous and polite. And he would kill himself if he chased off the most incredible woman he’d ever met. That meant not being pervy, which meant not staring. So instead of watching her, he surveyed the gallery they were standing in.

That was when he realized.

The June Gallery. He hadn’t given much thought to the name of the place, too distracted by the idea of seeing Mirevas again. Now he looked across the room at the few people in attendance, taking in their facial tattoos and intricately embroidered clothing, and a vague memory surfaced, something he’d heard years ago, about a Dalish god called June.

This was a Dalish art gallery. It was right there in the name, and he hadn’t realized it.

Well, that was all right. Mirevas was Dalish. He wanted to know more about her, which meant he wanted to know more about her culture. This was a great opportunity for that.

It was just… well. It had been a matter of seconds since they’d stepped through the door, and he was already receiving strange glances. And the gallery hadn’t even opened yet.

Mirevas’s hand tightened on his arm.

It didn’t matter. He was here for Mirevas. He would serve her in any way he could, and everything else was superfluous.

His eyes swept the gallery again, this time seeking out the artwork on the walls. Mirevas had crafted each piece, and each of them held a promise -- to reveal a glimpse into the heart and mind of their creator. Blackwall had been anticipating this opportunity since the day she’d called to hire him. He focused on the nearest painting, eager to see what her hands had wrought.

It was exquisite. The sharp lines, vibrant colors, and distinct shading marked it clearly as the work of a tattoo artist, which appealed to him immediately. A white halla with intricately entwined silver antlers gazed out of the painting at him, set against a field of blue and framed by waving lines of green reminiscent of elegant vines.

Every time Blackwall thought his admiration for Mirevas couldn’t grow any larger, she proved him wrong. Her physical loveliness had been obvious from the moment he laid eyes on her, but within a few hours of knowing her, she’d shown herself to be both deeply intelligent and incredibly kind. As if that weren’t enough, her talent as an artist was incomparable. Well, he’d known it must be -- people paid her to practice her craft on their own bodies -- but seeing her artwork in person…

It overwhelmed him. Blackwall felt incredibly privileged just to look at it.

Mirevas shifted her weight, drawing his attention back to her. One corner of her mouth quirked up, but her eyes remained fixed on the painting before them. “My uncle raises halla.” She glanced up at him, then quickly away. “You could say he inspired this.”

Blackwall was momentarily jealous of the uncle who inspired this extraordinary creation. He wondered what it would be like to stir that kind of feeling in her, to instill such passion in her that she had to express it, that such beauty would come from her hands all because of--

He couldn’t think like that. She was a client. An exceptionally talented, brilliant, gorgeous...client. An old knight like himself -- there was nothing he could offer her. She’d have no kind of life with him.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,” Blackwall said, and hoped she didn’t know that it wasn’t really the painting he was talking about.

Mirevas looked back up at him in surprise, and a pleased grin spread across her face. “Thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

“Mirevas!” The voice came from across the room, and they both turned to look. An elf with a clipboard was frowning at her, looking distinctly nervous. “ _ Elanas ma halani, sathan? _ ”

Blackwall had no idea what he’d said, but apparently it wasn’t good, because Mirevas sighed and shook her head. “I’m sorry.” She pulled her hand from his arm reluctantly. “The downside of being the guest of honor -- I have to deal with every little wrinkle in the plans. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Blackwall didn’t really want to be alone here, but of course that was ridiculous. So he smiled. “I’ll take this opportunity to look around before the doors open to the public.”

She grinned shyly. “All right, then.”

The elf across the room spoke in Elvish once again, and Mirevas rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, I’m coming!”

With one last look at Blackwall, Mirevas turned and hurried off.

* * *

Mirevas’s work focused on nature, Blackwall observed. Soaring trees, delicate flowers, stately animals. And yet there was an edge to her art. He couldn’t explain it, but there was something very rock-and-roll in her portrayal, in her style, that set her paintings apart from any other nature scenes he’d ever seen.

Every piece was magnificent. But the most intriguing, the most arresting pictures, the ones that truly fascinated him, were the ones with “Not for Sale” signs posted beneath them. The ones that could only be renderings of Dalish legends and folklore. In these paintings, every brushstroke was so lovingly executed that he knew instinctively she had poured her soul into them. And despite his best intentions, Blackwall felt a surge of dismay. Because--

\--well. If the soul she’d poured into her art was so very elven, what could she possibly think of Blackwall? What need could she ever have for a large, lumbering human?

The revelation of just how ill-suited to her he was made him realize -- he’d still been holding out hope. Hope that this incredible goddess might somehow, someway find something in him to...to…

...care about.

He was a bloody fool.

“Blackwall?”

Mirevas’s voice behind him made him start. He turned to see her smiling up at him.

“Problem solved. And Creators willing, I won’t be interrupted again. The artist is supposed to mingle, after all. Can’t be called away to deal with every missing hang tag that turns up. Or rather, doesn’t turn up.” She rolled her eyes and shot him a grin.

“It would indeed be a shame to deprive the people of your presence.”

She chuckled and looked at the floor. “If I’d known knights were so kind and gallant, I’d have started hiring them years ago.”

Her compliment went straight to his heart. Ah, there was that hope again. Would nothing teach him not to wish for the moon?

“I’m really glad you’re here.” Her voice was quiet, and Blackwall realized that no, nothing would.

* * *

Well, it was official. Blackwall did not belong here.

He wasn’t the only human. Others wandered in and out, mostly young hipster couples. But Blackwall was the only one who didn’t leave after about ten minutes, and he was at all times the largest person in the room. He almost wished for Gal to be there, just so he wouldn’t be the only giant among elves -- but no, a pair of large men would most certainly be worse.

And this was bad enough. Blackwall couldn’t miss the odd looks he kept receiving, or the way Mirevas seemed to become increasingly uncomfortable as the night went on. With good reason. Having him at her side could only be disagreeable to the throng of Dalish admirers. No doubt she regretted bringing him here. And the fact that she’d actually spent money on it…

He shouldn’t have let her pay for the job; he should have volunteered to come on his own time. But no, he’d already been committed to being on duty this evening, and more importantly, waiving the fee would make this...a date. And he couldn’t impose his affections on her, not when she’d called seeking a professional service.

Perhaps he should have refused the job altogether. But that wasn’t right, either. She’d wanted him to be here, and it would have been wrong to turn her away. He’d had no valid reason to, either, even if he’d known how awkward it would be.  _ Sorry, don’t want to be around a lot of Dalish people.  _ It was an awful, untrue sentiment. He was honored to be allowed to spend time within her culture. He just hated for his presence to reflect poorly on  _ her _ .

And of course, he could never have risked her thinking that he was rejecting her. The idea was intolerable. No, he’d done the right thing. He just didn’t know what he could do now to improve matters for Mirevas.

At least he didn’t seem to be chasing people away. Mirevas had, unsurprisingly, been receiving a constant string of admirers all evening. None of them had looked at or acknowledged Blackwall in any way. They spoke to Mirevas mostly in Elvish and ignored the large human hovering next to her.

Blackwall did the only thing he could think of -- he refilled her drink as necessary and otherwise stood by her side.

After another trip to the punch bowl, Blackwall came back to find Mirevas hugging a Dalish man with long black hair. She beamed at him fondly, taking his hands in hers. Blackwall couldn’t stifle the sharp jolt of jealousy in his heart.

_ She’s not yours to be jealous over _ , he reminded himself sternly. 

The mental admonition did nothing to make him feel better.

Mirevas didn’t seem to notice Blackwall standing there. She chattered happily in Elvish to her Dalish friend, and the man laughed in response. Blackwall watched them, holding a cup of punch in each hand and trying not to feel awkward. Was it rude to stand here looking at them? Should he clear his throat or something?

Mirevas saved him the trouble of deciding by noticing him at that moment. “Blackwall!” She sounded genuinely pleased. “Vireth, I want you to meet my--my friend, Blackwall. He’s a knight.”

Vireth’s eyebrows went up, but he held out his hand. “That’s not a profession I’m familiar with. What exactly does a knight do?”

Mirevas reached out quickly to take one of the cups, freeing Blackwall to accept Vireth’s handshake. As he took the elf’s hand, Blackwall analyzed his words, trying to figure out if there was disapproval in them, and then decided that if there was, it didn’t matter. Not everyone could understand his calling, and not everyone needed to. Those who were most important to him understood.

He hoped Mirevas understood.

“These days?” Blackwall shrugged. “Whatever a client finds useful. Protection detail. Gardening. Car repair.” He glanced at Mirevas. “Ridding a flat of spiders.”

Mirevas shuddered. “It was terrible, Vireth. My new flat was full of the things. You should have seen it. I still can’t believe Blackwall went in there. He’s my hero.”

It was the second time she’d called him that, and his chest filled with pride, just as it had the first time. He’d never get tired of those words. To have earned such praise when he hadn’t even been able to finish the job… it overwhelmed him to think of it.

Vireth’s face was unreadable as he looked at Blackwall. “ _ Dirthas Elvehn _ ?”

Er…

“No, he doesn’t speak Elvish.” Mirevas looked uncomfortable again. “I mean -- I’m sorry, I should ask you. Do you speak Elvish, Blackwall?”

Blackwall shook his head. His cheeks grew hot with embarrassment at his inadequacy, and he wished to the Void that he did speak her language, that he could have that to share with Mirevas. Vireth had that to share with Mirevas.

“Ah,” Vireth said. “I wasn’t sure.”

Mirevas looked up at Blackwall (she was going to hurt her neck doing that; she wouldn’t hurt her neck looking at an elven man). “Vireth is my cousin. He’s a very skilled craftsman.”

…cousin?

Blackwall almost laughed in relief. Cousin. Quickly, he pushed the feeling away. It should be nothing to Blackwall if Mirevas had a boyfriend. Blackwall was just…

...he was just…

What was he, exactly? The knight she’d hired for the evening, of course, but why? It couldn’t be more obvious that he was an ill fit for this event. So what had Mirevas been looking for when she signed that contract? What  _ was  _ he?

Whatever he was, he couldn’t just stand there wondering about it while they stared at him. Blackwall addressed Vireth. “A craftsman. What sort of work do you do?”

“I work with wood. Not purchased or planed, found. Every piece is a fragment of a life. I seek to uncover and enhance the beauty inherent in that life, not to alter its structure by imposing my desires upon it. I also strive to advance in traditional arts, crafting items with purpose as the people have always done, but those remain among our own people.”

“A noble trade.” Blackwall meant it. “I’ve done some woodworking. Not comparable to what you do, of course,” he said quickly at Vireth’s frown, “but there’s something very soothing about working with your hands. I admire what you do.”

Vireth’s frown softened. “What sort of woodworking did you do?”

“Children’s toys, mostly. I made a griffon rocking-horse for a friend’s daughter, once. I was rather proud of that one. But I’m afraid I don’t have the skill for creating genuine art.”

Mirevas gazed at him, and Blackwall thought she looked proud. “Do you still do it?”

“Not for years, I’m afraid.” He wished his answer was different -- they might be more impressed with him.

“So you gave it up to become a knight?” Vireth’s tone was polite, but once again, Blackwall thought he detected a note of disapproval at his chosen profession.

“Woodworking was always more of a hobby for me. Something that let me unwind. I usually gave away what I made. Making a profession of it never seemed realistic, not with my limited skill.”

Mirevas spoke again. “Were you always a knight, then?” Blackwall could have been imagining it, but he thought she sounded intensely interested.

“Only the last ten years.” 

“What did you do before?”

The conversation was heading into dangerous territory, but Blackwall wouldn’t lie. “Competitive fencing.”

There was no mistaking the awe on Mirevas’s face, and guilt shot through him. There was nothing to admire in what he’d used to be.

Vireth scrutinized him. “Why change?”

It was too much to go into now, not at this time, not in this setting, so Blackwall gave a partial answer. “It’s...complicated. But I couldn’t have done it forever, and I wanted to be honorable. A knight in shining armor. May sound silly, but we help people at the Knight Shop. Each of us has a code to follow and can’t be asked to violate it. I find it a noble calling.”

Mirevas ducked her head, smiling. Vireth squinted at her. In a stoic sort of way.

“Mirevas, Vireth!  _ An’eth’ara! _ ”

Blackwall turned his head to see a Dalish woman resembling Mirevas approach. Mirevas squealed and jumped forward, throwing her arms around the newcomer. “Sulevin!”

The woman laughed and hugged her back, then spoke in Elvish again.

Mirevas pulled back and gestured to Blackwall. “Sulevin, this is Blackwall. Blackwall, my cousin, Sulevin. Sulevin is Vireth’s sister.”

“ _ Andaran atish’an _ ,” Sulevin said to Blackwall. That seemed to be some kind of greeting; he had picked up on that much over the course of the evening, at least.

So he responded in kind, doing his best not to stumble over the words. “ _ Andaran atish’an _ .” 

Mirevas reached for his hand, wrapping her fingers around it. He closed his hand over hers. The expression on her face -- it made Blackwall’s heart skip a beat. Maker, she undid him without even trying.

He’d almost forgotten where he was until Vireth cleared his throat. “Mirevas.  _ Nuvan dirtha ma? _ ”

Mirevas blinked and squinted at her cousin. “Sorry, what?”

“Can I speak with you a moment?”

“Yes.” Mirevas bit her lip and turned to Blackwall. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

Blackwall ducked his head in a small bow. “As my lady wishes.”

Vireth gave Blackwall a long look before stepping away with Mirevas on his heels. Blackwall tried not to feel abandoned, but without Mirevas at his side, the feeling that he had no right to be here intensified. He looked at Sulevin to find her watching him carefully, and that did nothing to increase his comfort level.

“Have you had a chance to look around?” she asked him.

Blackwall nodded. “I did. Mirevas...she’s extremely talented.”

“She is. What did you think of the scene with Andruil? The one with the Forgotten Ones, not with Ghilan’nain.”

Erm. Blackwall tried to think of a way to explain that he didn’t know what she was talking about -- without looking like a sodding idiot.

“Did you not see that one? It’s one of my favorites.” Sulevin inclined her head toward a corner of the gallery, and Blackwall followed her over obediently.

The painting was large. He’d seen it already, but the subject matter was a mystery to him. The title was in Elvish, so that was no help, and he hadn’t had time to read the long explanation on the tag. But the painting itself was captivating. In Mirevas’s unmistakeable tattoo style, a beautiful, fierce elvish woman held a spear aloft, wearing an expression so fiery it could melt steel. Menacing shadows with glowing red eyes surrounded her, making Blackwall shiver.

“Andruil is invading the abyss here. Can’t you just feel the fury in her?” Sulevin chuckled. “I almost pity the Forgotten Ones.”

Andruil, abyss, Forgotten Ones. Maker, he wished he had even the slightest idea what that meant. “It’s a very moving piece,” he said simply. “Like there’s a fire in her eyes. I hope I’m never on the receiving end of a look like that.”

Sulevin tilted her head infinitesimally. “Then I’d suggest you never, ever hurt Mirevas.”

Startled, he met her eyes to see them burning dangerously. Not as terrifying as Andruil in Mirevas’s painting, but frightening enough to know that he never wanted to cross Sulevin.

“It’s not like that,” Blackwall murmured. Ah, how he wished it was. “But I give you my word as a knight that I’ll do everything in my power to guard Mirevas from any pain.”

Sulevin nodded slightly, and Blackwall knew she didn’t trust him, but at the same time he thought that perhaps she was...appeased. Somewhat.

Mirevas had been gone for too long. Well. Not that long, but it felt like ages to Blackwall. He glanced across the room, looking for her, and found her standing with her back to him, nodding at Vireth’s words. As if she could sense Blackwall’s eyes on her, she looked back over her shoulder. Their gazes met, Mirevas smiled, and for a moment, he felt that the two of them were sharing an intimate secret.

“I’m not sure this scene is something to applaud.”

Blackwall started. Once again, he’d been so enraptured by Mirevas that he’d lost all sense of his surroundings. A bald elf -- not Dalish, judging by his plain clothing and lack of facial tattoos -- had joined them, and was now examining the beautiful painting critically. It made Blackwall bristle without even knowing what the man meant.

But he wasn’t the only one disturbed by the newcomer’s statement. Sulevin glowered at him, disdain all over her face. “You think you know better than Mirevas how Andruil should be portrayed?”

“It’s a matter of perspective,” the bald elf said smoothly. “This hunt drove Andruil mad, after all.”

“A tragedy. Her passion turned against her.”

The man turned to Blackwall. “ _ Dirthas Elvehn, shemlen? Mar sil? _ ” 

Without thinking, Blackwall turned to Sulevin for help. Not that Mirevas’s protective cousin had any reason to come to his aid. But she replied harshly in Elvish, and it felt like a rescue, even if it hadn’t been meant as such. Maker, it made a man feel powerless, being excluded from so much understanding.

But of course, that was his own weakness. The man that Mirevas deserved, the man he wished he could be, would understand her language -- or at least be comfortable enough with her culture not to feel as helpless as Blackwall did right now.

The bald elf shook his head and looked to Blackwall. “The problem with being too close to a legend is that objectivity becomes difficult.” He spoke as if certain that Blackwall would share his opinion, and Blackwall seethed at the man’s rudeness. 

“I defer to the lady on this one.” He nodded at Sulevin, who lifted her chin. “I certainly wouldn’t presume to contradict her on her own heritage.”

“I see.” The male elf regarded Blackwall, coldly assessing him. “My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions.”

“Blackwall.”

“Blackwall. What brings you here,  _ shemlen _ ? Are you elf-blooded?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“An academic interest in elven history, then?”

Blackwall glanced away again, looking for Mirevas, and found her approaching, her brow furrowed in concern.

“No.”

“Hmm.” Solas looked unimpressed. “What does bring you here, then?”

“He’s here because I asked him to be, Solas.” Mirevas stepped up next to Blackwall and put a hand on his arm, then looked to Sulevin. “Is everything all right here?”

Sulevin opened her mouth to speak, but Solas answered first. “A difference of opinion, that’s all.”

“ _ Solas eolas banal o isa av _ ,” Sulevin said, then addressed Blackwall. “It was very nice to meet you. Perhaps we’ll speak later.”

“I would like that.” As awkward as Blackwall may feel, he had a great deal of respect for this woman that he’d only just met, and he believed Mirevas was lucky to have such a cousin.

Sulevin nodded. “ _ Dareth shiral _ .”

That sounded like goodbye, so Blackwall repeated, “ _ Dareth shiral _ ,” and hoped he hadn’t put his foot in his mouth.

He thought, as Sulevin turned away, that she looked just the tiniest bit pleased.

Solas didn’t acknowledge Sulevin’s departure. He was gazing at Mirevas in a way that Blackwall recognized as, well, enamored was the only word for it.

For the briefest of instants, Blackwall imagined himself punching the man.

“It seems your show is a great success,” Solas said. “I expected nothing less.”

“That’s very kind of you to say. Thank you.”

“I speak only the truth. May I get you a drink?”

Yes, Blackwall definitely wanted to hurt this man.

“No, thank you. But I appreciate the offer.” Mirevas tilted her neck to look up at Blackwall again. “We should probably circulate, don’t you think?”

Before he could answer, she was tugging on his arm, pulling him away. “ _ Dareth shiral _ , Solas!”

Blackwall didn’t bother to say goodbye. He kept his eyes on Mirevas as she led him to the other side of the room, into a corner with a partition that partially hid them from the eyes of the others.

Exhaling, Mirevas turned to look at him. “I’m sorry. We haven’t had a moment to ourselves.”

She wanted to be alone with him?

“I’m flattered you’d spend any time with me. I enjoy talking with you.”

And he truly did. Lunch with her last week had been a wonderful experience. Mirevas was not only exceptionally clever, she’d proven herself to be a kind and considerate woman with a sweet sense of humor. Everything new he discovered about her only made him fall harder.

She fiddled with a bracelet on her wrist. “There’s something I wanted to say to you--”

A voice speaking Elvish made them both turn. Another patron, it seemed. The person gestured to a painting, the lilt of her voice making it clear she was asking a question.

She probably didn’t notice the brief, miniscule grimace that crossed Mirevas’s face, but Blackwall did.

Well. He should probably get her another drink. All that talking had to be thirsty work.

* * *

It seemed like ages -- and yet only minutes -- before the doors to the gallery closed, with not a few paintings marked SOLD on their tags. Gallery staff descended on Mirevas immediately, but she spoke in Elvish, giving what could only be a command, and they walked away, albeit somewhat resentfully.

“Step outside with me?” she asked Blackwall.

“As you wish.” He could never refuse an opportunity to be alone with her.

They walked silently to the door. Blackwall held it open for her, and they stepped out into the night air. As soon as the breeze hit them, Mirevas began to shiver.

Immediately, Blackwall removed his blazer and held it out. She allowed him to help her into it, then faced him.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

Blackwall blinked, her words taking him by complete surprise. “For what, my lady?”

She gestured at the space around them. “For--this. For bringing you here. For the way you were treated. I didn’t think -- Creators, it’s all so  _ Dalish _ , isn’t it?”

He didn’t follow. “That’s not something to be sorry for. You’re rightfully proud of your heritage.”

“But you--” She shook her head.

He didn’t belong. He was an intrusion. Yes, he knew.

“You should have been welcomed. Included. This -- it’s not just about us. Certainly I never intended it to be. It’s an art show, not some sort of private cultural ceremony. I want to foster understanding, create bridges. The way people ignored you, the way they looked at you -- it’s unacceptable. And I’m sorry. I can’t imagine how that feels. No, that’s wrong, I know exactly how it feels. And I should never have put you in that situation.”

She was apologizing...for him not fitting in. It was utterly incongruous. That any of this could be her fault-- 

“You’ve done nothing wrong, my lady. Your culture is a part of you, and I’m honored that you chose to share this with me. My only wish is that my shortcomings had not inflicted any unpleasantness on you.”

Mirevas looked astonished -- and appalled. “Shortcomings? What shortcomings?”

“I wasn’t able to respond appropriately. I didn’t understand the intricacies of your culture. You deserve better than an escort so culturally inept.”

She looked no less horrified. “You responded beautifully. And I never prepared you. Honestly, anyone who would judge me for bringing a man who is so obviously trying, who treats our culture with respect despite not fully understanding it -- a person who would judge me for that? I don’t want their approval.”

Blackwall had thought her smile was the most beautiful thing in the world. But the fierce strength that filled her eyes now was almost as overpowering.

“The only regard I care about is yours,” he said softly.

Her anger seemed to melt at his words, and she gazed up at him with intense emotion.

Before he could think, he asked the question that had plagued him all evening. “Why did you want me here, my lady?”

She blinked, startled. “I--”

Maker’s breath. He wished he could take back the words. “Forgive me. That was inappropriate. I should not have asked.”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I’m glad you did. I--I was so nervous about the show, and you -- well, you were so brave the last time. I felt like--if you were here to support me--I could get through it.”

The admission astounded him. He’d had no idea she was nervous, not with the easy way she’d greeted every admirer. And that she could view him in such a way--that his mere presence could give her strength--

“Besides, I--well, I--” she hesitated “--I just wanted to see you again.”

Her words hit him straight in the heart. She’d wanted to see him. Wanted it enough that she’d risked the censure of her peers to be with him tonight.

She looked away, focusing her gaze out at the parking lot.

Blackwall gathered all his courage.

“May I see you again, my lady?

Mirevas’s head jerked back towards him, her eyes wide. But--not in a good way, he realized. Like a halla caught in headlights.

Fuck. He’d misunderstood. He thought she meant--but she didn’t--

“I’d like that, but--” Maker, she looked uncomfortable “--it’ll be a while before I can afford to hire you again.”

Her smile was nervous, apologetic.

It took him a second to understand what she was saying, and when he did, he was alarmed. Andraste’s arse, could he bugger this any more?

“No,” he said, scrambling for words, “I mean--”

Impulsively, he took her hand, and her lips parted.

“Not as a job. I want to take you out. Dinner. On me.”

She stared at him, mouth agog. Silent.

Maker, his heart was pounding.

“You can ride in my car?” he offered.

Suddenly, Mirevas laughed. “Oh, well, if I get to ride in the  _ car… _ ”

The tension deflated, and Blackwall could breathe again.

“Yes,” she said, smiling that glorious smile. “Even without the car. I’d really, really like to see you again.”

She was so beautiful. He wanted to kiss her. Maker’s breath, he wanted it. But he couldn’t. This was still a job. A professional obligation. And it would not reflect well on the Knight Shop if the knights went around snogging their clients.

Instead, he lifted her hand and kissed her fingers again, never taking his eyes off her lovely face.

The change in her face was unmistakeable. Her eyes darkened and her breathing quickened. Blackwall’s pulse sped up in matching desire. He couldn’t kiss her; it wouldn’t be right. But…

...if  _ she  _ kissed  _ him… _

_ Maker, please let her kiss me _ .

Mirevas withdrew her hand, and her breathing evened out. “Dinner then? Erm--tomorrow?”

She seemed just as impatient as he was to be together again, and a laugh escaped him, not of humour, but of pure joy. “Six o’clock?”

“Perfect.” She beamed. “That’ll be...perfect.”

Perfect, indeed. Blackwall couldn’t agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art of Mirevas from this chapter: https://68.media.tumblr.com/38cf68c9890b2f5fbe4762d9e54b4914/tumblr_onhhiiE3O31r2bic8o1_540.png
> 
> Vireth and Sulevin belong to Aphreal.
> 
> The Elvish comes from this online translator (https://lingojam.com/ElvenDAI) using the Project Elvhen conlang (http://archiveofourown.org/series/229061). Many thanks to the creators of those tools and apologies for any butchering I may have done to their work.
> 
> Elanas ma halani, sathan? - Can you help me, please?  
> Dirthas Elvehn? - Do you speak Elvish?  
> An’eth’ara! - casual greeting  
> Andaran atish’an - Welcome to this place of peace, more formal greeting  
> Mirevas, lethallan. Nuvan dirtha ma? - Mirevas, cousin. May I speak to you?  
> Dirthas Elvehn, shemlen? Mar sil? - Do you speak Elvish, human? Your thoughts?  
> Solas eolas banal o isa av - Solas knows nothing about what he speaks of  
> Dareth shiral - Safe journey


	4. In Which Blackwall Has the Best Laid Plans

Blackwall looked in the mirror again, questioning for the umpteenth time whether his clothing was all right. He was a work-with-his-hands kind of man, which meant that his wardrobe wasn’t exactly expansive. T-shirts, jeans flannels -- that was about the sum of it. He’d worn the nicest clothes he owned at the art show the day before, so now--

Well. Plain black flannel over a Black Lyrium concert tee with black jeans. That was really the best he could do. They’d agreed to keep it casual, anyway, so that should be fine, right?

Was it too much black? No, Mirevas wore a lot of black. Black was all right.

“Oi, Beardy. Still primping, are you? Gonna run through your whole closet soon if you try on any more stuff.”

“You mean I haven’t already?” Blackwall said dryly. “I’d better take another look, then, hadn’t I? I’d hate to miss something.”

Sera came up behind him and whacked him lightly on the shoulder. “Nuh-uh. At this rate you’ll be looking in my room next. Bad enough you use up my conditioner on that beard of yours. Start stretching out my t-shirts and you’re moving out, you are.”

Maybe the t-shirt was too casual. Blackwall started buttoning the flannel to hide it. “Not my fault you buy the expensive shit. Buy cheap conditioner like I do and you won’t have to worry about it. Anyway, I’d never steal your t-shirts, even if you weren’t so little. Your taste in music is shite.”

“Hey.” She put both hands on her hips. “I’m not a million years old listening to music from the Ancient Age. Anyway, I’ve been switching the bottles on the conditioner for ages. No way am I shelling out that much for your shiny beard locks.”

Blackwall laughed. “Serves me right.” He shook his head. “But the joke’s still on you from where I’m standing. If I can’t tell the difference after using it this long, you’re getting ripped off.”

He wasn’t about to tell her that he knew she’d been switched conditioners. It was obvious -- her conditioner smelled like flowers. But now that she’d admitted this much, he’d have to be extra careful from now on. It would be just like Sera to start putting PVA glue in the bottle or something.

Sera squinted at him in the mirror. “Better tuck that shirt in, right? If you’re gonna wear it buttoned.”

“I was just going to do that,” Blackwall bluffed, unbuckling his belt to do so.

“Course you were. Where’re you taking -- whatzername, Meerva?”

“Mirevas.” The loveliest name in the world; how could anyone forget it?

“Ugh. Sounds elfy. Where’re you taking your elfy girlfriend?”

Blackwall really liked the sound of the word  _ girlfriend _ . “There’s a restaurant down on Maple Street. I know the woman who owns it from way back. Fixed up her car for her plenty of times, and she’s always treated me right. Nice place, good food. I’m meeting Mirevas there.”

“Perfect. I’m meeting friends down on Maple Street. You can give me a ride.”

“No way. You just want to meet her.”

“Course I do. First date you’ve had in two years? Bloody right, I want to meet her. Must be something real special, this one.”

It was much longer than two years, but Blackwall wasn’t going to admit that. He finished adjusting his clothing, gave himself one last look in the mirror, then brushed past Sera. He wanted to get there early, and if he didn’t leave now, he wouldn’t be able to.

“Do need a ride, though. Otherwise Zevran will have to pick me up. All the way out here then back again. Not really fair to poor Zev when you’re going right there anyway.”

“No.” A first date was not the time to introduce his loudmouth roommate.

“Come on,” she cajoled. “Not gonna say nothing bad. Maker knows you need to get laid, and I ain’t no cockblock.”

Blackwall grabbed his leather jacket and shrugged it on.

“I’ll clean the flat. Top to bottom.”

He scoffed. “No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t. But Varric’s cousin owns a cleaning service, and she owes Varric a favor, and he owes me a favor--”

Blackwall paused. A professional cleaning… if he wanted to invite Mirevas over on their next date (would there be a next date Maker please let there be a next date)...

“Damn it,” he swore.

Sera grinned triumphantly.

* * *

Despite being five minutes early, Mirevas was already there when Blackwall pulled up. Sod it. He’d been hoping to arrive first and get rid of Sera before Mirevas saw her.

No chance of that. Mirevas spotted his car right away. A grin spread over her face, and she started walking towards them before he’d even parked the car. 

Sera leaned forward. “That her, then? She’s just a bitty thing, inn’t she? Be hard for you to kiss her. Big lug like you, gonna get a crick in your neck.”

Blackwall thought about bending over to kiss Mirevas, and his heart started to race. “Completely worth it,” he said.

Sera laughed. “Hehehehehehehe. Bet you’ve already thought of ways around that.”

Blackwall put the car in park and turned off the engine. “So you’ve seen her. You can go on your way now.”

“Should at least introduce myself, shouldn’t I.” It wasn’t a question, and Blackwall cringed. “Don’t want to be rude or nothing.”

“Fine,” he hissed between gritted teeth, then swung open the door. “Make it quick.”

Mirevas’s grin had already faded to a slightly puzzled smile, but as Blackwall walked toward her, she lit up again. “Hello!”

“Hello, my lady.” Maker’s breath, her beauty astounded him every time. His feet hesitated as he got close. Was he supposed to shake her hand, or--

It had been way too long since he’d been on a date. But then, he hadn’t wanted to be with anyone this much since--

He’d never wanted to be with anyone this much.

Mirevas solved the question of greetings by throwing her arms around his waist. His body went rigid with shock. Quickly, he raised his own arms to encircle her shoulders. She felt so warm…

The hug lasted barely a second, but it left Blackwall stunned. He tried to reorder his wits. “ _ On dhea’lam _ ,” he said. “It’s good to see you.”

Mirevas laughed in delight, just as he’d hoped she would. “Are you learning Elvish?”

He mentally thanked Duolingo. “I’m trying.”

“You’re doing wonderfully!”

It was just one phrase, but she looked so pleased. Blackwall was proud of himself. She appreciated his effort, as small as it was.

Sera cleared her throat in a very obvious way.

Damn it. He’d almost forgotten about her. “This is Sera,” he told Mirevas darkly. “She needed a ride. Now she’s leaving.”

“Call that manners?” Sera stepped forward, hand extended. “Mirevas, right? Beardy hasn’t stopped talking about you.”

Andraste’s arse. He supposed he should be happy Sera’d gotten her name right, at least.

Mirevas shook Sera’s hand, sending Blackwall a shy glance. “Is that right?”

Sera rolled her eyes. “Honestly, if I have to hear one more word about--”

Blackwall coughed loudly, and they both looked at him. “You have to go, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m leaving. Nice to meet you, then.” Sera leaned toward Mirevas as if sharing a secret. “Take him home and screw his brains out, yeah? He could use it.”

With a wink at Blackwall, Sera flounced off down the street.

Maker’s fucking balls. If his face were any hotter, it would be on fire. With dread in his gut, Blackwall looked at Mirevas. Her cheeks were as red as his felt.

“She, ah, she’s a friend of yours?”

“My roommate. My lesbian roommate.” He grimaced darkly. “My  _ dead _ roommate.”

Mirevas laughed, not meeting his eyes. “She, er, really wants to help you out, doesn’t she?”

“We’re talking about a very painful death. Torturous.” She still wasn’t looking at him. Shit, shit, shit. “I’m so sorry about her.”

“Oh, no! It’s all right. Don’t worry about it.” She met his eyes now with a smile, and a weight lifted from his shoulders. Then her gaze flitted to something over his shoulder before returning to his face.

Puzzled, Blackwall turned his head to look behind him. Ah. The Charger.

“I thought we’d take it for a spin later, since we’re already at the restaurant. But...would you like to sit in it?”

Her eyes lit up. “Can I? Can we?”

He chuckled. “Of course we can.”

Mirevas practically bounced over to the car, and he followed on her heels, then unlocked the door with his key and opened it for her. No remote locks on his vintage machine, thank you. She jumped in quickly, and Blackwall walked around to the driver’s side. Mirevas leaned over to unlock his door, then opened it for him.

Thoughtful. Kind. Sweet.

He climbed in and watched as she ran a hand lovingly over the dashboard. “I think this is the most amazing car I’ve ever been in.”

“You think?” Blackwall’s eyebrows flew up at the slight. “You’re not sure?”

“No, you’re right, it’s definitely number one. First runner up would be a ‘67 Mustang. But this...the Mustang has nothing on this. It’s a ‘71, am I right?”

She knew her cars. Maker’s breath, he was in love.

“Precisely. And clearly superior to the Mustang.”

“Beyond a doubt.” Mirevas reluctantly pulled her hand back from the dashboard and smiled sheepishly at Blackwall. “Sorry. I got a little caught up there.”

“Don’t be sorry. It took me five years to fix her up. I’m glad you appreciate her.”

“How could anyone not?”

“Seems like for a lot of people, a car is just something that gets you from point A to point B.”

“It’s not, though. It’s...history. It’s art. How much time do we spend in our vehicles? How can they not be important?”

Blackwall laughed. Maker, she was perfect.

Mirevas ducked her head and laughed with him. “I guess we should go in, though, shouldn’t we?”

“I suppose we should.” Blackwall brightened at the thought. The White Hart was a classy place with great food, a pub on the first floor with a restaurant above. He hadn’t been there in a few months -- it wasn’t terribly close to home -- so he was glad to have a reason to come back, and he was sure the unique art decorating the walls and slightly edgy atmosphere would suit Mirevas’s tastes beautifully. “I promise we’ll go for a drive later.”

MIrevas laughed as she opened the car door. Blackwall followed her out, and she waited on the pavement for him to come around to her side. Silently, she reached for his hand, slipping her fingers into his.

One touch, and it set his body on fire. Maker’s breath, he was like a teenager with her.

When they reached the door, Blackwall opened it and held it for Mirevas with a slight bow, allowing her to step through first. He followed, watching her reaction to see what she thought of the place.

The smell of sour alcohol made him look up in an instant.

This...was not the place he remembered. Well, no, it was -- but it wasn’t like this, not before. The pub he was looking at now was crowded and noisy, filled with rough-looking people. The floor was sticky under his boots. His eyes scanned the room. The framed artwork he’d been sure would impress Mirevas had been stripped, leaving only bare walls. Behind the bar, a woman with a lined face and a grim expression was filling beers. She slapped a groping hand away with a glare.

“ID?”

Blackwall started at the voice. A large, female bouncer with a bleach blond ponytail folded her muscled arms over her chest, eyeing Mirevas with suspicion. Mirevas swallowed, then fumbled in the pocket of her jacket, removed her wallet, and pulled out a driver’s license. She handed it over hesitantly.

Maybe the restaurant upstairs was still nice, Blackwall thought, trying desperately to hold onto one last shred of hope. He looked to the door that led to the staircase. It was shut, and a table was pushed against it, blocking it entirely.

The bouncer glanced at the card and then handed it back, looking bored. 

Blackwall addressed the bouncer. “Er, excuse me.”

Her eyes drifted to his face. “Yeah?”

“We came for the restaurant?”

She huffed in a way that was almost a laugh. “The restaurant hasn’t been open for months. Closed up when the management changed over.”

The management had changed. Ah, of course it had. Bella would have never let the place fall into this state.

Helplessly, Blackwall turned to Mirevas. “The restaurant is closed,” he said stupidly.

Mirevas bit her lip. “Did you want to stay?”

No, no, he didn’t want to stay. But his mind went blank, trying to think of a place to take Mirevas now.

She glanced into the pub, then out the door. “Maybe we take that drive now and look for someplace else as we go.”

“Yes.” Thank goodness she’d known what to do, because Blackwall’s brain had frozen. “We should do that, yes.”

He held the door for her once more and cringed at the way she all but ran through it. There was no hand holding now as she rushed to the car and waited for him to catch up and unlock it. Panic shot through him, and he made an effort to squash it. Maybe he could save this. If they found a nice place now…

When they were safely in the car, Blackwall braved a look at Mirevas’s face. She was biting her bottom lip, one arm wrapped around her body.

Andraste’s fucking knickers, he’d buggered everything up.

“Erm--” Blackwall wracked his brain for something that might cheer her up. “Do you -- would you like to drive, my lady?”

Mirevas’s eyes went wide, and she dropped her arm, looking at him in what could only be awe. “You’d let me drive your Charger?”

Blackwall never let anyone drive his Charger. Never. And yet, handing the keys over to Mirevas right now didn’t sound like a bad idea. Okay, it made him nervous, but if it would save this date -- if he could still have a chance with her--

“Yes,” he said. “I know you’ll be careful.”

Mirevas opened her mouth, and then a shy smile lit up her face. “Thank you,” she said quietly, beaming at him. “But no. I wouldn’t want to risk hurting a car like this. Besides--” She stopped.

“Besides?”

“Heh. If you must know, there’s something kind of comforting about having a man drive. It makes me feel like I’m taken care of. I know I’m not supposed to think like that, being a feminist, but, well, to be taken care of? It’s not a female or a male thing. Everyone wants that, don’t they?”

Those brown eyes looked at him in question. Maker’s breath, they were beautiful eyes.

“I know I do,” he murmured.

She grinned, ducking her head again. “So, if it’s all right with you, I’d like you to drive. But it means so much that you offered.”

Her hand moved, catching his attention. She lifted it from her lap -- then let it drop again. Quickly, she looked out the window. “It’s a nice night, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful,” he said, not taking his eyes off her.

But he couldn’t drive and stare at her at the same time, so he tore his gaze away and turned the key in the ignition. 

* * *

They hadn’t gotten very far before the glare of police lights appeared in the rearview mirror.

No. No, no, no. Maker’s balls.

Blackwall pulled the car over and rolled down the window. He was afraid to even look at Mirevas, but then, not knowing her reaction was worse. He hazarded a glance in her direction and was relieved to see that her lip was quirked in shared exasperation.

The light of a flashlight drew his attention. A grizzled policeman peered in the window. “License and registration?”

Blackwall bit back a sigh and handed him the paperwork.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

He had no bloody idea. “No, officer, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“You were driving very slowly.”

Blackwall blinked. He hadn’t been going  _ that _ slowly. “We were looking for a place to get food.”

The policeman turned his flashlight to Mirevas’s face. She squinted in the light.

For whatever reason, the police officer relaxed. He lowered the flashlight and leaned an elbow on the windowsill. “Taking the girl out?”

Blackwall didn’t trust this sudden camaraderie, but he answered politely. “Yes, sir.”

The man grinned and handed back the paperwork, then leaned in as if about to tell a great secret. “You have a good time then,” he said conspiratorially. “I hear Dalish women are wild in the sack. Especially the young ones. Hope you get to find out.”

It took a second for the man’s words to sink in, and when he understood, fury pumped through him. He wanted to tell that man exactly what he could do with his smug little face. No, he wanted to break the man’s nose.

His fists clenched, and he sat there impotently, frozen, unable to move as the man rapped twice on the frame of the car before stepping back. “Pay more attention to what you’re doing, there.”

With that, the officer retreated to his car. A moment later, the flashing lights went off.

Blackwall’s hands were shaking, but he put the car into gear and eased back out onto the street.

To his shock, Mirevas put her hand on his knee. Startled, he looked at her.

“That sucked,” she said. “Fucking arsehole.”

“I wanted to punch the bastard.”

“Me, too. Maybe we should stop somewhere and cool down.”

“Yes. Good idea.” Blackwall’s eyes scanned the side of the road, hoping against hope to find a decent looking place to eat.

“I don’t see a restaurant,” Mirevas said, “but there’s a parking lot over there. You look like you need to stop for a minute.” Mirevas removed her hand, and the corner of her mouth quirked. “Your hands are shaking.”

Ah, she’d noticed that. Yes, she was probably right.

The parking lot was dark as he turned into it, but there were several cars already parked there. Blackwall slid his car into a space, put it in park, and leaned his head back against the seat.

“Ah, ah!”

At first Blackwall thought the sound was Mirevas, that she’d gotten hurt, and his head turned to her in alarm, but her face was confused. Outside her window, in the next car--

Maker’s fucking balls. A very impassioned couple was wrapped in an incredibly indecent embrace.

Behind him he heard a moan. He didn’t look. Couldn’t look. Andraste’s pyre, this was it. He’d lost her for sure. Nobody could want to stick around after this disaster of a date.

Blackwall put his forehead on the steering wheel.

Then he felt Mirevas’s hand touch his shoulder. He looked up in surprise.

“It’s okay,” she said. “We can fix this.”

“I’m so sorry. This -- all of this --”

Her brow creased. “Sorry? Why?”

“For Sera. For that restaurant. For driving slow and getting pulled over. For --” he gestured around him vaguely “--this.”

To his surprise, Mirevas laughed. Her hand slid down his arm to take his hand, sending shivers down his spine.

“It would be one thing if you did those things on purpose. If Sera’s suggestion had come from you instead of her. If you took me to a sleazy pub because you thought I didn’t deserve better. If that horrible policeman was a friend of yours, and you shared his sentiments. But nobody could look at your face and not know that you were horrified by it all. I think it was worse for you than it was for me, even.”

Blackwall’s jaw dropped. She had to be the most forgiving woman in the world.

“You don’t hate me?” he said in shock.

Mirevas squeezed his hand and spoke quietly. “Just the opposite.”

His heart fluttered in his chest. He tried to think of something to say, but he had no words.

“So,” Mirevas went on. “I know what we should do now.”

The whole dreadful situation faded away in the light of her smile.

* * *

She directed him back to the neighborhood near the Knight Shop, where there was a small Rivaini takeaway place tucked back in an alley that Blackwall had never seen before. After getting some of what Mirevas promised was the best Rivaini cuisine in the city, they drove to Mirevas’s new and now spider-free flat.

Blackwall held the bags of takeaway while Mirevas turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “It’s… bad.”

He stepped inside, gripping the bags. “I’m sure it’s not--”

His words were cut off when he saw what she meant. Yes. Yes, it was bad. The front room was filled with boxes, some of them open with things spilling out. It was devoid of furniture -- no, wait, there was a couch buried under boxes over there, and a mattress propped up against a wall…

Mirevas laughed. “I told you it was bad. A friend of a friend is a painter, and he volunteered himself and his employees to move my things for free. Only problem -- they dumped everything in this one room and left.”

“I’ll get the knights to come out and help you,” Blackwall said immediately.

She shook her head, looking down. “It’s okay. Like I said, I have to wait a while before I can afford to hire a knight again.”

Blackwall huffed in disbelief, almost offended. “You don’t have to pay. This is me and my friends helping out my--” He stopped. What was she to him? “My...new friend.”

She raised those brown eyes to his, and her gaze pierced his heart. “You’re sure? You don’t have to do anything.”

In response, Blackwall bowed as best he was able with the takeaway in his hands. “I’m at your service, my lady.” He hesitated, then added quietly, “Whatever you need.”

Mirevas’s face filled with some emotion that he couldn’t name. “Thank you,” she murmured.

Her eyes flicked to his lips, then back to his eyes.

Maker’s breath. He wanted to kiss her. No, he was  _ going  _ to kiss her. His heart pounded, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He took a small step towards her, and--

Oh. The food. This was… extremely awkward. Blackwall glanced around for a surface to set the bags on. Not that box, it was open, and this other one was sort of tilted…

Mirevas laughed and reached for one of the bags. “We can put this on the floor for now, and then maybe move some boxes off the couch?”

She stepped away, and the moment was broken. Blackwall took a breath to calm his racing heart, then set the food down and moved obligingly to clear away the boxes.

* * *

Mirevas had not been lying. This was the best Rivaini food Blackwall had ever tasted.

“I know, right?” she said when he told her so. “Best kept secret in the city.”

Her voice was like music; he’d never get tired of hearing it. Blackwall asked her question after question about herself: her family, her art, her interests. She told him how her parents passed away when she was eight, and how her aunt and uncle took her in. The cousins Blackwall had met at her gallery opening, Vireth and Sulevin, were more like protective older siblings who had taken her under their wings. Vireth had been a sixteen-year-old boy when Mirevas came to live with them, and he’d taught her the crafts he’d been studying, which stoked her passion for the arts and led her to become a tattooist. “I don’t think this is exactly what he had in mind for me,” she said, “but I like to think he’s still proud.”

Blackwall remembered the way Vireth had looked at Mirevas at the gallery the other night. “I have no doubt that he is.”

The conversation turned towards cars then, and how Mirevas had developed an interest in them from her mother, who’d been a mechanic before she passed. Mirevas couldn’t fix a car herself to save her life, but she had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of them otherwise.

“So why drive a Rover?” Blackwall asked.

Mirevas chuckled. “Because I can’t ruin it. That thing is a tank. I could probably drive straight into a brick wall without it getting so much as a dent.”

“That’s... very likely true.”

Blackwall could lose himself in conversation with Mirevas, but eventually anxiety hit him that he might be overstaying his welcome. He quickly checked his phone to discover that it was just on the verge of being indecently late.

“I should go.” He couldn’t keep the reluctance out of his voice.

For just a moment, her face fell, but she recovered quickly. “You’re probably right.”

They both stood, and Mirevas walked him to the door. He opened it, then hesitated in the doorway. Adrenaline had taken him again. This was the part of the date where he kissed her, right?

His palms were sweating.

Before he could do anything, Mirevas put a hand on his neck, guiding his head down, pausing with her lips only centimeters away. Blackwall’s heart was racing so fast, he thought it might burst out of his chest.

“Mirevas,” he breathed.

She lifted her chin, and her lips brushed his before pressing lightly against them.

It lasted only seconds, but when their mouths parted, Blackwall’s head felt light.

Slowly, Mirevas pulled her hand back, her fingers sliding against his skin in a way that sent shivers through him.

“Wow,” she whispered.

Wow was right. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “May I see you again, my lady?”

“You had better.”

“Friday?”

She shook her head. “I’m working. Thursday?”

“Yes.”

Mirevas grinned shyly. “I’ll plan the date this time.”

“That’s probably for the best, my lady.”

He took her hand and kissed her fingers, and he didn’t miss the way her breath hitched at the touch of his lips.

“I’ll call you to set up a time to help you unpack.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

“It’s my pleasure.”

She smiled, and as always, her smile lit up his world. “Good night, Blackwall.”.

“Good night, my lady.”

Walking away from her was hard, but as he made his way to his car, his feet were light. This smart, kind, talented, beautiful woman had kissed him. She wanted to see him again. The knowledge was heady, and in that moment, Blackwall felt he could take on the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _On dhea’lam_ \- Good evening


	5. In Which Everyone Worries About Blackwall's Beard

Fencing again. Sometimes Blackwall thought if he had to hear another word about fencing, he’d go mad.

He bit back the urge to snap at Alistair. The sport made the boy happy. Blackwall had been a young man like that once, with that kind of enthusiasm. Well, no, not like Alistair. Alistair was much more honorable than young Thom. But the thrill of the sword, well, that Blackwall understood, even if he didn’t share that passion any longer.

“We watched videos of old Grand Tourneys last night,” Alistair was saying. “Alexia says studying the masters’ moves will help us learn.”

Blackwall’s head shot up. “You did?”

Alistair nodded. “Ameridan’s first gold medal. One of the most epic matches in Grand Tourney history, Alexia says.”

And Blackwall could breathe again. Alistair hadn’t found out about Blackwall’s shameful past from a video. The boy didn’t know who Blackwall was, and while it wasn’t exactly a secret, Blackwall was not looking forward to the disappointment in the younger man’s eyes when he found out. But the match Alistair mentioned had happened when Blackwall was two. Which meant he had a little more time to work up the courage to tell Alistair before he found out somewhere else.

Alistair’s voice brought Blackwall back to himself. “You could have been there, couldn’t you?” His eyes were alight with excitement. ”Did you ever meet Ameridan? Wait -- did you ever  _ fence  _ with him?”

Now Blackwall was startled in a whole new way. “Did I -- Maker’s balls, Alistair, how old do you think I  _ am _ ?”

The boy shrugged and pondered. “I don’t know. Erm -- sixty?”

_ Sixty? _

Blackwall put his head in his hands.

“I guessed wrong, didn’t I? Fifty-five?”

Still fifteen years too high. The absurdity of it hit him, and he began to laugh.

Alistair looked entirely puzzled. “That’s still wrong, then? Well, how old  _ are  _ you?”

“Never mind.” Blackwall knew he came across as older to most people, and that was fine. It was just -- Andraste’s arse,  _ twenty years off. _

He laughed again, harder. “Don’t you worry about it. It’s not your fault.” He couldn’t resist getting a dig in. “Barely more than a child yourself, how could you know any better?”

“Hey!” Alistair bristled. “I’m twenty-two. I’ve been supporting myself for four years.”

That was true, and it made Blackwall feel a little bad for the jibe. And then he remembered  _ sixty _ . So he shook his head and said nothing, returning his attention to the used motorcycle ads he’d been perusing on his phone.

“Anyway, from what I’ve heard, this lady you took out? She’s not much older than me.”

That stopped Blackwall cold.

Alistair was right. Blackwall hadn’t asked her directly, but from what Blackwall gathered about Mirevas from her stories, she was about twenty-six or twenty-seven. Well, she was four or five years older than Alistair, and that could make a big difference, but even so, Blackwall was at least thirteen years older than Mirevas. And he looked even older.

How old did Mirevas think he was?

“But, well, if you’re old enough that you confuse childhood and twenties…” Alistair grinned with feigned helpful innocence. “Were they both long enough ago that you can’t remember the difference?” 

Blackwall snorted in amusement and shook his head. Clearly aware of his victory, Alistair resumed his one-sided fencing discussion. “But as I was saying. Alexia says Ameridan was the first elven fencer to win a medal for Orlais, and he came out of nowhere at the Grand Tourney. No one had taken him seriously because his style was so different; he’d been trained in the Dalish school, after all. But she says now everybody learns his technique for a compound-riposte, because...”

As he so often did when Alistair talked fencing, Blackwall began to tune him out. But instead of going back to his bike search, he found himself examining his reflection in the shop window. He didn’t think his face was that lined. A little bit, but he was forty years old; that was to be expected. His beard, though. It was shot through with grey. Maybe that was it? The reason everyone mistook him for older?

“Hey!”

Blackwall looked at Alistair to find him frowning, arms crossed over his chest. “I asked you a question. You usually at least pretend to be listening.”

Blackwall’s eyes drifted back to his reflection. “Do you think I’d look younger if I shaved my beard?”

The silence that followed made Blackwall turn. Alistair’s mouth had fallen open.

“Shave your  _ beard?” _

Blackwall raised an eyebrow. “That  _ is  _ what I said, yes.”

Alistair’s eyes were wide. “But, but…” He closed his mouth, then opened it again. “It’s a part of you! You can’t get rid of it. No one would recognize you!”

Blackwall chuckled, highly amused at Alistair’s reaction. Poor man was taking his question seriously. “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody cares what I do with my facial hair.”

“No!” Alistair shook his head. “People care. That’s who you are. You’re the one with the beard. If you didn’t have the beard, you couldn’t be the one with the beard.”

Blackwall glanced at his phone. It was twelve-thirty. Clearly he wasn’t going to get any peace around here, so he stood and slipped the phone into his back pocket. “I’m going to lunch. Hold down the fort.” He smirked. “Want I should bring you back a kiddie menu and crayons?”

“Only if they have a maze on it, a good one that you can’t do in two seconds just by looking at it. Or maybe a word search. But wait, you can’t just leave; this is important!”

Blackwall waved a hand at him dismissively as he opened the door. “We’ll talk about it when I get back.”

As the door closed behind him, Blackwall felt a small pang of guilt for not telling the boy that he would never shave his beard. But, well, after guessing his age to be  _ sixty _ , it wouldn’t kill Alistair to worry for a bit.

* * *

When Blackwall returned, Cassandra and Gal had turned up for their shifts. Kosh must have brought Cassandra to the shop, because the qunari was standing behind her, his huge form taking up a good portion of the room in a way that was completely at odds with his unassuming posture. All of them were watching Alistair, who was waving a clipboard around emphatically.

“...it’s against the natural order! Next thing you know, birds will swim and fish will fly!” Alistair pointed at Gal. “Do  _ you  _ want fish to fly?”

Gal furrowed his brow. “I hadn’t thought about it.”

Alistair caught sight of Blackwall. “Look, he’s here. Sign it so we can show him!”

He thrust the clipboard towards Cassandra, who folded her arms. “Shaving his beard is his choice,” she said.

Wait. What had she said?

Alistair gaped. “How can you say that? It’s like a monument. You can’t just tear down a monument.”

Blackwall nearly growled. “My beard is not a monument.”

Cassandra huffed.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like the beard.” Disbelief was all over Alistair’s face.

“If you must know, I believe it adds a certain...nobility. But it’s Blackwall’s decision. He’s the one who has to wear it.”

Alistair turned to Gal. “You’ll sign, right? You see how important this is?”

Gal shrugged. “It’s his business.”

Blackwall took a step forward, close enough to see the words scrawled across the top of the paper on Alistair’s clipboard.  _ Save the Beard _ , it said.

A petition. To keep his beard.

The door to Josephine’s office creaked open, and she emerged. “What is all this commotion?”

Desperately, Alistair thrust the petition at Josephine. “Blackwall wants to shave his beard.”

Josephine raised her eyebrows. “Really? Why?”

Blackwall gritted his teeth. “I don’t--”

“He thinks it makes him look old,” Alistair interrupted.

Josephine took the petition from his hands, frowning at it in a very pretty way. “So you’ve made a petition?”

“He thinks we don’t care! But we do!”

Blackwall grimaced. “I’m not --”

“I’ll sign,” Josephine said, reaching for a pen on the counter. “I like the beard. It’s very distinguished. Handsome.”

...that was what she thought? Blackwall felt his cheeks grow warm. He’d had a crush on Josephine, back when she first took over management of the shop. It had long since faded, but still, knowing that she thought the beard was handsome…

If one pretty woman felt that way, Mirevas might, too.

Josephine scribbled her name on the petition and handed it back to Alistair. With the clipboard in hand, Alistair looked to Kosh. “You understand, right?”

Kosh furrowed his brow in what seemed to be concern. “All right. I can sign.”

Blackwall gave up. He threw himself into his favorite chair, pulled up the motorcycle ads, and determined to ignore Alistair for the rest of the shift.

* * *

If he’d hoped the subject would be forgotten by the next day, he was sorely mistaken. He knew something was up as soon as he approached the shop and encountered Gal and his friend Dorian on their way out. Dorian saw Blackwall, and he smirked.

“I’ve started something in there for you. I think you’ll thank me for it. Well--” Dorian paused, examining Blackwall’s face. “Unless you’re wearing that beard to hide something? A weak chin, perhaps?”

Not the beard again. Blackwall glowered at Dorian. “My chin is not weak.”

“Hmm.” Dorian looked unconvinced. “It doesn’t really matter, though, does it? Even a weak chin is better than that bush.”

Blackwall clenched his fists, and Gal took Dorian by the arm. “We should go.”

Reluctantly, Dorian nodded. “Think about it,” he said as he walked away. “And you’re welcome.”

Maker’s balls. Blackwall really didn’t want to go in there anymore. The urge to turn around and get right back in his car was strong, but a knight didn’t neglect his duty, so he pushed open the door and went in.

Alistair was standing behind the counter, glaring at a clipboard as if it had massively offended him. At the jangle of the shop bell, he looked up, then quickly shoved the clipboard behind him.

Blackwall didn’t want to know. He grunted a greeting at Alistair, then plunked himself down in his chair. He’d seen an ad for a broken down Vincent Black Shadow yesterday, and he wanted to check his email to see if the owner had replied before it sold to someone else.

A clipboard thrust in front of his face nixed that plan. Blackwall raised his head to see Alistair’s determined face. “This is for you,” he declared.

Blackwall sighed and took the thing.  _ Save the Beard _ . Under the title, he found a startlingly long list of names.

Alistair Theirin 

Josephine Montilyet

Kosh Adaar

Cassandra Pentaghast

Ah, so she’d decided to sign after all.

Alexia Cousland (if Blackwall wants it)

Bullied into signing by Alistair no doubt, but at least she’d made a note that she respected his choice.

Following that, Blackwall was surprised to find a good number of regular customers had put down their names. He scanned the list in amazement. Maker’s breath, even Mrs. Renfrow had signed it.

“I never knew my beard was so loved.”

“You see?” Alistair grinned triumphantly. “People care. So you can’t shave it.”

Clearly this was not something Blackwall could ignore. With a sigh, he pushed himself up off the chair. “All right, where’s the other one?”

Alistair’s eyes went wide. “There is no other one.”

Blackwall stepped around him, heading for the counter. “Lies are unbefitting a knight.”

“All right, fine. There is another one. But it’s not worth looking at, honestly.”

The second petition was hidden behind the counter.  _ Shave the Beard _ , it said. This one had a handful of names.

Dorian Pavus

Erren MacNamara

Of course she’d signed this one. Blackwall rolled his eyes. There were three more names after that, and Blackwall didn’t recognize any of them. He was pretty sure he’d never met a one of them in his life.

“You see?” Alistair shifted his weight. “Not even worth looking at. Did you see how many people want you to keep the beard?”

Blackwall put the second clipboard on the counter next to the first and came back around to the front, standing before Alistair. Time to sort this mess out.

“Alistair.” Blackwall gestured to his face. “Look at this beard. No, don’t say anything. Just look.”

Alistair did, clearly fighting to hold his tongue against whatever litany threatened to spill out.

“Do you know how long it takes to grow a beard like this?”

“Er--no?”

“Years. This took me years. Do you understand? Just a yes or no answer, please.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Now. Look at the shape of this beard. Look at how smooth it is. Do you know how much time it takes me to keep a beard in this kind of shape?”

“...lots?”

Blackwall repressed a smile. “Yes. Lots. Now, do you really think I would ever shave a beard this magnificent? One that I’ve put this much time and care into?”

Alistair slumped in relief. “Thank the Maker.” He sighed happily. “I wouldn’t be able to look at you the same without the beard. I mean -- no offense -- I’m sure your face is very nice under there --”

“But the beard is a part of me now.” This time, Blackwall let himself smile, reaching out to pat the boy’s shoulder. “I understand.”

“Exactly! That’s what I was trying to tell Alexia, but I don’t think she got it. She--”

The tinkling of the bell interrupted him, and they both turned to see who’d come in. As soon as his eyes fell on the newcomer, Blackwall’s heart jumped into his throat.

Mirevas.

She looked around, and her eyes met his, lighting up as they did so. “Blackwall! Hello!”

His voice, when he spoke, was a little weak. “Hello, my lady.” Maker, he always melted in her presence.

She stepped towards him. “I hope I’m not intruding.” 

“You could never intrude, my lady.” He couldn’t imagine being anything but delighted at her presence. 

Mirevas ducked her head. “Thank you. I was in the neighborhood, and I thought I’d stop by. Maybe check in  about the, erm, furniture moving thing?”

Ah, yes. “I believe I’ve got the situation sorted out. You said you’re not working tomorrow morning, correct?”

“I’ll be there!” Alistair jumped in. “And Gal. And Blackwall, obviously. We’re happy to help.”

Mirevas beamed. “Thank you so much. With four of us working, it should be done in no time.”

Alistair stuck out his hand. “We haven’t met. I’m Alistair. And you’re Mirevas. It’s nice to meet you.”

Mirevas took his hand with a smile. “Likewise.”

Blackwall cleared his throat in a very deliberate manner.

“...and I’m leaving. Right. I have, er, something to tell Josephine. About… the rota. Yes, that’s it. Very nice to meet you. Like I said.”

As Alistair walked away, his eyes fell on the two petitions on the counter. “Oh. And you don’t need to look at those clipboards. That’s all resolved.”

He disappeared into Josephine’s office.

By the Maker. Blackwall looked at Mirevas with dread. Her beautiful forehead was creased in puzzlement.

With a sigh, Blackwall picked up the two petitions and handed them over.

Those full lips parted as she read, and she looked up in alarm. “You want to shave your beard?”

“A misunderstanding.” Maker, how to explain? “I foolishly questioned whether my beard made me look older. The idea… got out of hand.”

Mirevas frowned in concern. “You don’t look old.”

What? Oh. She spoke out of kindness. “It’s all right. I know I look beyond my years.”

Mirevas searched his face. “You’re, what, thirty-eight?”

The guess took him aback. “Forty.”

“See?” She smiled shyly. “Not old.”

She had to be placating him. Soothing his ego. But her eyes seemed so sincere… 

“My beard has so much grey in it.”

“Oh.” Mirevas looked at it as if for the first time. “A few streaks, yes, you’re right.” She shrugged.. “I didn’t really think about it. I have a friend who started going grey in her teens. She’s twenty-nine now, and her hair is a lot more grey than yours. I guess I’m accustomed to young people having grey.”

She hesitated, then lifted one hand to his face and touched his cheek. Blackwall froze, heart stuttering.

“Your face is young,” she murmured. “And I…” She ducked her head, looking at him from under her long, black lashes. “I really like the beard.”

Slowly, she began to pull back her hand. Blackwall caught it before she could.

Mirevas looked up at him with wide eyes.

He’d kissed her hand many times before, but always on her fingers. This time, he turned her hand and pressed his lips to her palm.

Her breath hitched.

“I am  _ never  _ shaving this beard,” Blackwall said fervently.

Through the door behind him, he heard Alistair hiss, “Yes!”


	6. In Which Blackwall Can't Ice Skate

Blackwall wondered if he’d ever stop having butterflies in his stomach before he saw Mirevas. He stood on her doorstep, mentally preparing himself.  _ Be cool. Don’t sweat. You got this. _

He reached for the doorbell, but before he could press it, Mirevas opened the door.

“Hi.” She offered him a shy smile. “Sorry. I saw you pull up, and the buzzer didn’t sound, so I thought maybe it wasn’t working.”

_ It didn’t sound because I’m a bloody git who was standing on your doorstep trying to get his act together. _ “No, sorry. I hadn’t pressed it yet.”

She looked so beautiful. Her soft skin, her piercing eyes. He couldn’t get over it, couldn’t believe he was lucky enough to have caught this wonderful woman’s interest. She was so out of his league. And yet… here she was.

“Right.” Mirevas tugged on the sleeve of her leather jacket. “Erm -- should we go?”

Blackwall stepped aside with a small bow. “After you, my lady.”

Mirevas locked her door, and he followed her to his car. “Will you tell me where we’re going now?” he asked her.

“Mmm. I thought I might keep it a surprise until we get there. What do you think?”

Whatever she wanted was fine with him. “My lady, I put myself in your hands.”

She shot a grin at him over her shoulder as she opened the car door. “I’ll try not to take advantage of that.”

His heart missed a beat. “I am at your mercy, then.”

“It’s a good thing I’m merciful.”

Yes, yes it was. Because she could tear his heart out with a few words. The realization hit him hard. He was so far gone for her it was dangerous.

“And for that, I am eternally grateful.”

She got in the car and closed the door. Blackwall went around to the driver’s side and slid into his own seat.

Mirevas spoke quietly. “You’ve been more than merciful to me yourself. The least I can do is to return the favor.”

Blackwall’s chest was too full to properly respond. He turned the key in his ignition. “Well, my lady, since today I am at your mercy, I await your directions.

Mirevas smiled. “Head north.”

* * *

Ice skating. She’d taken him to an indoor ice skating rink.

Blackwall hadn’t been ice skating in, oh, at least fifteen years. But it would be fine. He was a former athlete; he could handle himself on skates. Most likely.

“So this is why you suggested thick socks.”

Mirevas laughed. “I was afraid I’d given it away.”

“I did think it was an odd request. But no, I couldn’t quite work it out.”

They waited in line to rent skates, Blackwall fearing all the while that they might not have any in his size. But no, they found some stashed away somewhere in the back. They were a bloody pain to get on, but Mirevas helped him, shoving them by the bottom until his heel went in, then lacing them as tightly as they would go. He would have felt embarrassingly incompetent had not Mirevas needed the same help.

And then they were on the ice. Mirevas skated out gracefully and turned to face Blackwall. “You might want to start by the wall,” she suggested when she saw his face.

Blackwall shook his head. If Mirevas could skate that beautifully, he wasn’t going to humiliate himself by holding onto a wall like a child. “I’m fine.”

Mirevas looked concerned, but she nodded. Blackwall stepped out onto the ice, pushed himself forward…

...then teetered and fell on his arse.

Fuck.

Mirevas shot forward and knelt at his side. Around them, skaters whizzed past.

“Can you stand?”

Blackwall’s face was red with mortification. “Yes, my lady.”

He let her help him up and lead him towards the wall. “It’s all right,” she said. “Everyone starts out holding onto something. Don’t feel bad.”

The reassurance did little to relieve his embarrassment, but her guiding hand on his arm, the sweet way she smiled at him… Perhaps it was worth falling if this was the result.

She stayed by his side as he slowly made his way around the perimeter, offering tips and help on his form, and after a couple of cycles she suggested that he might be ready to venture away from the support of the wall. So he took her arm and let her be his crutch as he stumbled but held his ground.

“You’re doing very well,” she said in his ear.

Maker, her voice, the nearness of her body…

It was awkward, bracing his bulk on her slender frame, but she was very patient and didn’t seem to mind. At one point, she slipped her arm around his waist, and he put his arm around her shoulders. He wasn’t sure this was actually helpful, as it brought their feet closer together, and they had to pay extra attention to keep their legs from tangling up. But Blackwall certainly wasn’t going to complain, and if it weren’t for his utter klutziness, he didn’t think he could be happier.

Eventually he got the hang of it, and they moved to holding hands as they went around at a reasonable pace. Her hand was so small and soft in his. Blackwall hadn’t realized, when they first arrived, just how much opportunity there would be for physical contact. Ice skating was the best idea ever.

But his legs were sore and his body tired, so when Mirevas suggested, “One more time around, and then a break?” he agreed wholeheartedly.

Of course, that was when he buggered it up.

He’d gotten too cocky. Wasn’t paying attention. His foot slipped from underneath him, and he fell hard on his tailbone, pulling Mirevas down on top of him.

Shite. Shite, shite, shite.

“Ow,” Mirevas said. “ _ Fenedhis _ .”

And then she started giggling.

Blackwall tried to disentangle himself from her. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She was still laughing. “Falling is a part of the ice skating experience.”

Thank the Maker she was so understanding. He struggled to stand, but she got there first, extending an arm to help him.

He put one hand on the ice to help push himself up, using her hand as leverage. And then--

**RIPPPPPPP**

It took him a moment to realize what had happened. His jeans had split right down the middle of the seat.

Bloody Void, could he just have one date with Mirevas where nothing got bollixed up?

“Everything okay?”

“Fine,” he started to say, then sighed. No, he wouldn’t be able to hide this. “Not fine. My jeans… they’ve ripped. In the back.”

Mirevas put a hand over her mouth, amusement in her eyes. “Oh, no. You have the worst luck, don’t you?”

His ears were hot. “At the worst possible times, it seems.”

“Not at all. It could have happened at work. In front of Alistair. He’d never let you live it down. Luckily, it’s just me.”

_ Just  _ her. Just the most amazing woman he’d ever met. “I care much more about your good opinion than anyone else’s, my lady.”

Her lips parted, and she ducked her head. “You have it.” She looked around. “But we should probably get off the ice before someone plows into us.”

“An excellent thought.”

They made their way around to the exit and stepped off the ice. Mirevas held his hand as they tromped over to the benches.

“Mirevas? Mirevas Lavellan?”

Mirevas stopped at the sound of the voice, completely frozen. Blackwall looked over his shoulder to see an attractive elven woman watching them with raised eyebrows. No vallaslin, so likely not Dalish. She looked to be fairly short, only a little taller than Mirevas. Reddish-brown fringe framed her face, and brown eyes looked out from her tanned face.

He looked to Mirevas. She took a breath as if steeling herself, plastered a polite smile across her face, and turned to face the woman.

“Hello, Lathra. It’s been a long time.”

“It certainly has. You look…” she pursed her lips “...well.” Her tone of voice said that she didn’t think Mirevas looked well at all. “More tattoos, I see. How very brave of you.”

The only tattoo visible other than Mirevas’s vallaslin was a delicate crystal grace blossom on her chest. Mirevas’s lip quirked. “You know me. Adventurous.”

“Indeed. I heard you have a show. In a little Dalish gallery, as I recall.” Lathra shook her head in sheer amazement. “How nice that someone was willing to show your work. I’m glad for you.”

Rather than respond, Mirevas turned to Blackwall. “Blackwall, this is Lathra Surana. Lathra, this is Blackwall.”

Blackwall did not want to speak to this woman, who showed herself to be more abhorrent with every word she spoke. To his relief, she didn’t acknowledge him any more than he acknowledged her.

“And you’ve found…  _ someone…  _ to take you out.” Oh, Blackwall did  _ not  _ like this woman. “I suppose it’s good you’ve found someone who’s more of a match for your intellect and sophistication.” 

Blackwall didn't care what was said about him, not from a woman like this. But the affront to Mirevas set off a rumbling of anger in his belly. He gritted his teeth, wanting to tell this Lathra exactly what he thought of her, and yet keenly aware that a tirade from him would do no good whatsoever. 

And Mirevas had the matter well in hand. She responded with a proud smile. “Indeed. I'd say I've done quite well.”

“Really?” She glanced at Blackwall, eyebrows raised. “It seems I never was your type, then? How very... interesting.”

Blackwall didn’t miss the insult to him, but he was distracted by another point. Had he understood that right? Lathra was Mirevas’s ex?

“I assume the continued ‘adventurousness’ means you haven’t given up tattoos yet to devote yourself to worthwhile art. How fortunate that you found a niche gallery willing to show your work in its current state.”

“We always did have different ideas about what made something ‘worthwhile’.”

“To say the least. But it seems you’re doing well for yourself, considering. If you ever decide to properly commit yourself to your art, who knows what you could do?” Her tiny smile was condescending and not the least kind. “Assuming you find a partner or patron with a proper head for finances willing to take on a bit of a project, of course.” 

Blackwall’s head reeled at the woman’s audacity.

“But I shouldn’t keep you from your…” she grimaced at Blackwall “...date. I do hope that striking stubbornness continues working in your favor to keep you afloat until you’re ready to devote yourself to your art properly. Don’t wait too long and let your potential atrophy; it would be such a waste.”

With a saccharine smile, Lathra turned on her heel and strode away.

Blackwall looked to Mirevas. Her shoulders slumped, and she turned away, taking two large steps towards the nearest bench and dropping onto it like a stone.

Tentatively, Blackwall sat down next to her. “Are you all right?”

Mirevas laughed mirthlessly, not meeting his eyes. “It seems you’re not the only one with bad luck.”

Blackwall made a face. “She’s a nasty piece of work.”

“She’s my ex. And she’s terrible.”

She looked shaken. Blackwall hesitated, then put his hand on hers. “Recent?”

“About a year ago. I’d rather hoped I’d never see her again.”

“I can see why.”

“I'm so sorry for what she said about you.”

Blackwall scoffed. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. Not someone like her. If she doesn't like me, so much the better.”

Mirevas looked at him from the corner of her eyes. “I’m not like what she said.” Her voice was quiet enough that he had to strain to hear her over the sounds of the skating rink. “I am worthwhile. And I have exactly the kind of success I want.”

“You're an amazingly talented artist, and your work is shown in a beautiful gallery, in front of exactly the right audience to appreciate your genius. And I can only imagine the honor in being asked to create permanent art on a person’s body.”

Mirevas exhaled. “Thank you. I know it, but Lathra --”

Blackwall thought that  _ but Lathra _ about summed it up.

“She wanted to change me. Wanted me to give up the things I loved. And I wouldn’t change for her.”

“I’m glad of it.” Blackwall ran a finger over the back of her hand. “You’re perfect as you are.”

Her brow creased in skepticism. “Nobody’s perfect.”

Blackwall paused, looking for the words. But it was simple, really. “You are to me.”

She looked at him face on now, biting her lip. Then she reached up, put a hand behind his head, and pulled him forward, pressing a hard kiss to his lips.

It wasn’t a long kiss, but it sent Blackwall reeling. When she pulled back, his head swam, and he couldn’t seem to get enough air.

“Sorry.” Mirevas looked down at the floor. “I don’t mean to be too forward.”

Too  _ forward? _ Blackwall could almost laugh at the ridiculous idea. He touched a finger to her chin and guided her head up to look at him.

“You can kiss me anytime you want.” He exhaled in disbelief. “Believe me. Your kisses…”

He leaned in and brushed his lips against hers, and she drew in a sharp breath, sending a thrill through him. He never wanted to pull away from her, but making out in the middle of a skating rink, surrounded by people and kids, was not the best idea, so he drew back reluctantly. Her eyes opened, and he saw that they were dark with passion.

“Your kisses drive me wild,” he whispered.

She blinked, and for a moment, he thought she was going to drag him into her arms and kiss him senseless, audience be damned. But she took a deep breath and pulled away with a nervous chuckle.

“Do you think we’ll ever manage a date that doesn’t go terribly wrong?”

Blackwall tried to calm his racing heart and focus on her words. “Maybe not,” he said ruefully. “But I’ll tell you one thing. I’ll put up with any kind of disaster if it means I get to be with you.”

Mirevas slipped her fingers between his. “Good,” she said. “Then I'm not the only one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Aphreal for the use of Lathra Surana.


	7. In Which Blackwall and Alistair Get Silly

Blackwall had technical specs for an OHV V-twin engine on his lap -- preparing to fix up the Black Shadow he’d just bought -- but he wasn’t really seeing them. No, his brain had wandered to Mirevas: the depths of her brown eyes, the beauty of her tattooed skin, the intelligence in her thoughtful manner, the kindness in her caring heart. He remembered the way her hair fell in wisps around her face when it escaped her bun, the way her slender fingers felt against his own calloused hands…

A loud THWACK! made him look up. Josephine had dropped a large pile of blank paper on the counter next to Alistair, who looked as startled as Blackwall felt.

Calmly, Josephine plucked the ledger that Alistair had been doodling on from his hands. “Your artwork is very nice,” she said delicately, “but perhaps you might consider drawing somewhere other than my paperwork.”

With a sweet smile, Josephine disappeared back into her office, ledger in hand.

Blackwall and Alistair looked at each other, and Blackwall smirked.

Alistair frowned petulantly. “What are you smiling at?”

In response, Blackwall turned his attention back to his specs, noting with amusement the way Alistair grumbled and folded his arms across his chest.

Of course, Blackwall’s thoughts wandered almost immediately back to Mirevas. He was relieved that when Alistair and Gal helped him move her furniture around her flat, Alistair hadn’t managed to cause him  _ too  _ much embarrassment. To Blackwall’s consternation, Alistair had apparently seen it as his duty to tell Mirevas just how great Blackwall was. This would have been fine -- except Alistair thought Blackwall was a million years old, and most of his praise revolved around how different Blackwall was from other men “his age”. Thank the Maker for Gal, who had managed to mostly distract Alistair from this goal by keeping him focused on work.

Ugh. Blackwall pushed the thought from his mind. Alistair had meant well, Blackwall knew, and he couldn’t hold any animosity towards the boy. So he let his mind drift back towards Mirevas and how amazing she was. He would see her again soon -- she’d offered to tattoo him, and he was thrilled at the idea. Should he bring her flowers? No, not flowers, that was a bit cheesy, but maybe one flower. A rose?

Alistair slid a paper off the pile and started drawing.

Normally, Blackwall would be holding back a chuckle at that, but lately he’d begun to sympathize with Alistair’s plight. If Blackwall had any talent, he’d probably want to doodle pictures of Mirevas himself. Of course, a lack of real talent didn’t seem to stop Alistair.

Blackwall glanced up at Alistair -- and frowned. Now that the doodle was larger, he could see details he hadn’t made out before. And --

“That’s not what early Blessed Age plate armour looks like.”

Alistair looked up, squinting in annoyance. “If this isn’t what it looks like, how did you know what it was?”

Blackwall set his specs aside and rose to join Alistair. “You’ve got the breastplate right, but the gauntlets are all wrong. They’d have to go higher, for one thing. Otherwise your lady is likely to break her arm.”

“What makes you think this is Alexia?”

Blackwall raised an eyebrow. “Did I say Alexia?”

Scowling, Alistair grabbed another sheet of paper and started drawing a new lady knight. Which still looked very much like Alexia Cousland.

“You might want to give your lady a helmet, too. So she doesn’t risk a head injury.”

Alistair sighed in annoyance. “You couldn’t have said something before I drew her head?”

Blackwall shrugged.

The younger knight scrutinized the picture. “If I give her a plate armour helmet, you won’t be able to tell who she is.”

This time, Blackwall did chuckle. “I thought she wasn’t anyone in particular.”

“She’s… not. She--”

“Never mind. Perhaps you should try chainmail. Circa Divine Age.”

Alistair grabbed another paper. “How should that go?”

 

The sound of laughter from outside her office drew Josephine’s attention. Blackwall and Alistair worked together nearly every day, and she’d never heard them laugh like this. These weren’t quiet chuckles. These were full-out belly laughs.

She tried to ignore it and focus on work. This paperwork had to be done by the end of the day, and it wasn’t going to do itself. But as the laughter grew louder and more hysterical, curiosity got the better of her. She pushed open the office door -- and froze.

The front room was a mess. Papers were scattered everywhere -- the counter, the floor, the chairs,  _ everywhere _ . Blackwall was drawing on a folded-up piece of paper while Alistair stood by, giggling and pointedly looking away.

Blackwall giggled, too, which made Josephine’s mind boggle. Carefully, he folded the picture to hide what he’d just drawn. “Your turn!” He thrust the paper and pencil at Alistair, who took them eagerly and began to sketch.

Completely unnoticed, Josephine stepped up to the counter and delicately picked up a discarded sheet of paper. It had been folded to make four long sections, one on top of the other. Two different hands had clearly worked on the picture before her. She was looking at a knight with mismatched armor. The top quarter of the page showed a head and shoulders. The second was drawn in another hand and depicted a chestplate and arms. Beneath that, the original sketcher had made hands and legs, and the bottom portion displayed ankles and feet. It was clear at a glance that neither “artist” had known what the other was doing.

“Let’s see, let’s see!” Alistair exclaimed, unfolding the paper in his hands. Blackwall leaned in, grinning like a fool in anticipation. They both looked at the paper and burst out in maniacal laughter.

“You made him a woman!” Blackwall gasped.

Alistair could barely get his words out. “How was I supposed to know you’d drawn a male head?”

“Maker, the armour.” Blackwall had to stop, bent double in a fit of giggles. Finally he said, “Exalted Age leather and Steel Age plate!”

That sent Alistair laughing so hard he started to wheeze.

Josephine looked at the chaos around her. She really ought to tell them to clean this all up, but they were having so much fun…

Well. She’d give them another five minutes. Pressing her lips together to suppress a smile, Josephine slipped back into her office, shaking her head.


	8. In Which Blackwall Confesses

This was it. Either a beginning… or an end.

He should have told her earlier. It wasn’t a secret -- at least, not a purposeful one -- but it wasn’t the sort of thing that came up in regular conversation. Now it was getting to the point where any more silence on Blackwall’s part would be deceitful. Mirevas may not have asked about Blackwall’s past, but she deserved to know.

Mirevas, for her part, seemed cheerfully oblivious to his nervousness as she prepped her equipment for his griffon tattoo. For some reason, her bright mood made his anxiety all the worse. He gathered all his courage.

“Mirevas.”

She looked over at him with a smile that quickly faded. “What is it? Have you changed your mind?”

“I -- no. That’s not --” He took a breath. “My lady, I--”

“It’s all right if you have. We can work on the design, or we can scrap it altogether. It’s a permanent decision, so don’t do anything that you’re unhappy with.”

“No, the design is perfect. But I need to--”

Maker, he couldn’t get the bloody words out.

Mirevas fell silent, brow creased with concern.

“Thom Rainier,” Blackwall blurted.

Mirevas blinked. “What?”

“Thom… Rainier.” Andraste’s arse, he sounded like a fool. “It’s my name. My real name.”

Mirevas opened her mouth to speak.

“No.” Blackwall held up a hand, afraid he wouldn’t get through this if he didn’t say it now. “Please, just let me--”

She closed her mouth, her face still puzzled.

Blackwall took a breath. “I’ve done something terrible. Not recently--a long time ago. Ten years. But that doesn’t make it any better. It was… bad.”

Mirevas frowned even more than she had been.

“It’s -- you know I was a fencer.”

“Yes.”

“Well. I was very successful at it. Made it to the Grand Tourney more than once in my time. Even placed first one year; won the silver three times.”

Mirevas nodded.

“And then I got older. Lost my edge. Began to lose sponsors to younger, fresher competitors. Fencing was all I knew, so to keep myself in the business, to keep the money coming in, I began to--” His voice caught. “I began to--”

“To fix matches,” Mirevas said.

The words were a punch to the gut. “What?”

“You began to fix matches,” she repeated. “I know.”

Blackwall’s head was spinning. “But  _ how _ ?”

“I recognized you. Not at first. But then you talked about fencing, and you looked so uncomfortable. Well. I realized it a few days later. You were that fencer with the gorgeous eyes that all the scandal was about when I was in college. The one that all the girls had a crush on.”

“I -- gorgeous eyes?”

She laughed. “Oh, yes. I was sixteen, and all my friends were talking about Thom Rainier. I was heartbroken when all that came out.”

Blackwall gaped, mind reeling as he tried to figure out what to react to first. “But you’re not now?”

Mirevas shrugged. “I mean, I don’t like that it happened, but it was ten years ago. A person has a right to move on with their life. You’re not doing anything like that now, are you?”

“No, my lady. Never.”

“I didn’t think so. Your honor means too much to you. So it’s in the past, and I’m happy to leave it there.”

“But--” This couldn’t be right at all. “Aren’t you angry at me for not telling you?”

“You did tell me. Just now.”

“But before--”

“It didn’t seem the sort of thing someone brought up on the first date. I figured you’d tell me before too long. And you did.”

A relieved laugh escaped him, and the tension went out of him like air out of a balloon. “Then you don’t hate me?”

She made an incredulous noise. “Is that what you thought? That I would hate you?”

“Many people would be unable to forgive such a thing.” He’d learned that the hard way. “My lady, I was not a good person back then.”

“Hmm.” Mirevas leaned towards him, and to his amazement, she kissed his lips softly. The touch of her mouth to his sent a shockwave through him. At best, he’d thought she would need time to come to terms with his past. At worst, she might have never wanted to kiss him again.

Her forgiveness was a miracle he couldn’t possibly deserve.

She pulled back with a smile. “I don’t know what you were like ten years ago. But I think I know who you are now. You’re someone who prizes valor and honor. Who takes pride in being a knight. Who looks out for other people even above himself at times.” She kissed him again, barely more than a peck, but it sent shivers down his spine. “Who treats me better than anyone ever has, as if I truly were a lady.”

“You are.”

Mirevas grinned as if her point was proven. “See?”

The woman was a spirit of compassion. She had to be.

She sat back entirely and raised an eyebrow. “Now, do you want this tattoo or not?”

Blackwall was giddy with relief. “Yes, my lady. I do.”

“Then let’s get going.”

As Mirevas picked up her tattoo machine, Blackwall gazed at her -- her elegant vallaslin, her piercing eyes, her gleaming hair -- and he marvelled at his luck. He could never have believed when she first walked into the Knight Shop that a woman as breathtaking as her would turn out to be equally beautiful on the inside, and even moreso that she could ever show interest in an old knight like himself. But not only was she dating him, she’d accepted his shameful past and forgiven him for it.

And she thought he had gorgeous eyes.

There was no doubt about it. He was the most fortunate man in the world. In that moment, Blackwall vowed to himself that he would do everything he could to be worthy of her.


End file.
